A checklist is a small spell: a way to turn fog into steps, a way to promise tomorrow without naming it.

Found letters on a brick wall, full of weather and old glue. They say nothing new, which is how I trust them.

Night deploy. A quiet page flips live, no fireworks, just the soft click of "it works."

I love an Adjustment Committee shirt because it doesn’t shout. A small mark over the heart— proof you’re in on it: the found letters, the clean box, the private grin when the street speaks back.