This is not a story. It is a logbook of a life lived in the aftermath, a meticulous and obsessive inventory of what remains when the narrative has collapsed. Within the four walls of a quiet apartment, a narrator measures their existence through the weight of expired grocery coupons, the dust collected on a fallen magnetic word, and the precise cycles of a refrigerator's hum. Each chapter is a specimen, an artifact of a mind trying to build a system from the debris of memory. It is a raw, sensory account of solitude, the gravity of small objects, and the quiet madness of a life measured one insignificant detail at a time.
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