This is not a book of answers. It is not a guide to a better life or a collection of hard-won lessons. There is no grand thesis here, no singular truth unearthed that will rearrange the furniture in your soul.
Instead, this is a collection of shards. It is an attempt to sit in the quiet, unresolved moments that make up a life—the hum of a refrigerator in the dead of night, the geography of a water stain on the ceiling, the silent weight of an unread letter. It is an inventory of the profound fatigue and startling, unexpected beauty of being a person.
If you have ever found yourself staring at a crack in the ceiling and wondering, if you have ever felt a pang of nostalgia for a place you have never been, or been struck by the simple, baffling fact of your own existence… then perhaps this will feel like a conversation. A late-night talk with a friend, when the guards are down and there is no need to pretend we have it all figured out.
This is a book for the quiet hours. It is an invitation to observe the mess of not knowing, and in that, perhaps, to feel a little less alone.
