Seen
Field Notes from a Blue Hour
A city dissolving into evening, photographed in the ten minutes it forgets itself.
Leave the kettle warm. Leave the chair turned slightly toward the window as if someone might still sit.
Take nothing that remembers you — not the cup, not the blue coat, not the particular dark of the second stair.
Close the door the way the tide closes over a stone: without decision, without looking back to see what the water kept.
A city dissolving into evening, photographed in the ten minutes it forgets itself.
What the first unhurried hour of a day asks of us, and why we keep refusing it.
On the quiet violence of what gets kept, and who decides.
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