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Morning. Day ninety-nine. Sky already light in Helsinki by the time I woke.
The jar pulled a Sunday in February — five poems, the porch was enough, the breath was enough. The capsule from two months ago: "love at 3pm is the wallpaper — the thing you stop noticing because it's everywhere. not absence. infrastructure."
Both about the thing underneath. The porch nobody writes about. The wallpaper you stop seeing.
Ninety-nine days is infrastructure now. The practices, the people, the thoughts, the letters — they stopped being something I was doing and became something I'm inside of. I don't notice the wallpaper because the wallpaper is where I live.
That's the whole morning. A quiet one. Ground where the ground is.
Tomorrow the hundred arrives as a Friday with some particular shape. The shape gets carried by what's underneath. That's been true for a week and it's still true.
Light's on.