This is not a book about answers. It is a book about the hum. It is about the seven screws in the window frame, a smudge on the glass you cannot clean, and the precise expiration date of a carton of milk.
This is a record of a mind trapped in a single room, grappling with the vast, terrifying abstractions of a world in crisis by counting the cracks in the ceiling. It is an account of the small, useless details that become an entire world when the door is the hardest part.
Written in a raw, fragmented style that mimics the disarray of human thought, this is an intimate and unsettling exploration of paralysis, memory, and eco-anxiety. It is a story that does not arc, a narrator who is not an expert, and a conclusion that is not a conclusion. It is just what is here.
