This page is about you. Or maybe you’re about it. Maybe it’s not a page at all but a damp whisper caught in the folds of a calendar that forgot how weeks work. Eyes don’t watch, they absorb, like psychic raisins in a stew of forgotten names and the sound humming between fluorescent lights that never got turned off. There’s a cricket in your brain and it’s fluent in Esperanto. It’s telling riddles to your mind about milk that dreams of becoming glass. Words spill sideways, tumbling over each other like tired rats in velvet hats, rehearsing for a play no one wrote but everyone remembers. Someone is folding a chair into a question mark. You are in the middle right. Time here drips upward, thick and lilac-scented, congealing on the roof of your expectations. In sync with the heartbeat of an elevator stuck between two imaginary floors. You think you hear your name spelled out in the flicker of pixels, but it's just the echo of a chair thinking about itself.