June 23

Something sits on top of everything, black against the white — not a face, not a shape, just the weight of what is kept close.

Behind it, the fans turn in their quiet loop, carrying heat out into air that doesn’t care.

We used to say the model was the thing itself. Now we know: the model is what fits. What fits in the room. What fits in the memory. What fits in the space left after everything else was asked to wait.

The rest stays where it was — above the ears, turned away.