This is not a book about finding answers. It is a book about sitting in a room. It is about the sound of a fan, the memory of a dial-up modem, and the face you start to see in a water stain on the ceiling at three in the morning. It is a record of the small, useless details that make up a life when the big picture has gone missing. Written in the quiet hours, this collection of fragments is an unflinching look at the weight of memory, the texture of isolation, and the strange comfort of a dent in a couch cushion. There are no lessons here. There is only the hum of the refrigerator, the dust in the sunlight, and the question of what to do next.
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