Whatever Survives the Walk Home

A thought feels like something you own. It isn't, not really. Most of them arrive on a walk or in a waiting room, half formed, and then dissolve into whatever needed doing next. Over the years I've lost far more of them than I've kept, and at some point I stopped assuming the good ones would stay on their own.

So this is a room for them. Nothing grand. A place where an idea can sit still long enough to become a sentence, and where a sentence can wait around for the rest of its paragraph.

What ends up here? Whatever survives the walk home. There are three of us in most of these stories: me, Rudy, and Karli.

No schedule. No promises about frequency. Just the pieces, as they come.

We're here, all of us. Not a mission. A place where the thoughts get to stay.

M.