every day begins in the dark.
there is a ritual in the first hour. before the screen glows, before the notifications arrive. the light comes in sideways, catching every surface like it's auditioning for a role. chrome dawn. the coffee cup becomes a mirror. you become the thing reflected.
mornings are not beginnings. they are continuations of dreams you forgot to finish.
it is not the grand gestures. it is the small ones repeated until they wear grooves into the day. the cup placed just so. the window opened at the same angle. the breath taken before the first word spoken aloud.
accumulation is its own kind of magic.
and so the day closes the way it opened. quietly. with a single flame.