#manduwrites

sunday night unfolds in small, unheroic acts: rice pressed together with (NOT ENOUGH!!!) wasabi, arguing with a book in the margins about cruelty and crowds, my child asleep with a pink bow tied without philosophy or permission. I eat while dead men warn me, underline what still stings, and watch innocence refuse the weight of history.

the world keeps shouting for blood and certainty; I quietly record what survives it. this is not wisdom yet, my fren—only evidence.