a held breath between consonants
The page is the broadcast. Slightly noisy. Deeply hopeful. Clock-aware. Where one cultural memory crosses another, we set a median — a hairline rendered as architecture, with a name and a coordinate. Every element that crosses it is reported to itself, in the small voice of a sensor that has been listening for fifty years.
This is not a sermon. It is a tide chart issued by hand at slack water. Read it the way you read weather.