Late-night, pocket-note confession. This is not a memoir about recovery. It is a record of friction. Since
the bad decision-since July, or maybe 2007, or maybe just
the thing-time has stopped moving, but the dust hasn't. Here is the weight of a dead battery, the texture of a matte paper coupon from years ago, the raw spot on a molar that just won't stay sensitive. This is a life lived entirely inside the details of what was dropped, what was lost, and what refused to break cleanly. It is a necessary document for anyone who knows the difference between a real failure and a perfect, circular scorch mark. No lessons will be learned.
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