There is a quiet certainty in the way random text settles into the shape of meaning, like a cat curling into a cardboard box that wasn’t meant for it.

Predictions are just guesses with better lighting. The future is a room we keep walking into, only to realize we’ve been here before, rearranging the same furniture. You’ve probably done this—stood in a space that felt new until you noticed the familiar dent in the wall where you once leaned too hard.

Meaning is a cooperative delusion. We agree to pretend certain patterns matter, and for a while, they do. This could have been a box. Instead, it’s a paragraph, which is just a box with softer edges.

The internet is a museum of unfinished thoughts. You scroll past them like exhibits, nodding at the ones that feel vaguely accurate. Somewhere, a stranger is typing the same sentence you just thought, and neither of you will ever know.

This text doesn’t help. It doesn’t solve anything or even try. It’s more like a sigh in a crowded room—noticeable only if you were already listening for it.

Certainty is overrated. The most interesting things happen in the margins, where the ink bleeds and the rules get fuzzy. You’ve felt this before, that strange comfort of not knowing exactly why something fits, only that it does.

There’s no resolution here. Just the quiet hum of words arranging themselves into something that feels, for a moment, like it was always supposed to be this way.