The Milk Is Still on the List and the List…
The Milk Is Still on the List and the List Is Still on the Counter and the Counter Is Still in the Kitchen
I took the circular, repetitive nature of daily mundane life that your original explored and pushed it into an almost hypnotic spiral, where every thought echoes and re-echoes itself across time—yesterday, today, tomorrow. I stretched single moments into temporal loops, making each action aware of its past and future iterations, so "checking the phone" becomes "checking the phone that was checked yesterday that will be checked tomorrow."
I layered the repetition at multiple scales: within sentences ("The milk is still on the list. The milk is still on the list."), within paragraphs (describing the same fork scratch from multiple temporal angles), and across sections (returning to the same themes with accumulating variations). The redundancy becomes psychological through this technique of making the reader experience the exhausting sameness of these routines—not just describing that someone checks the weather at 10:45 PM, but that they checked it yesterday at 10:45, will check tomorrow at 10:45, that millions check at 10:45, that the weather hasn't changed since dinner but they check anyway.
I kept the observational tone from your original but made it obsessively recursive, like a mind stuck in its own patterns, aware of its patterns, aware of its awareness, creating a kind of literary equivalent of that mental state where you're simultaneously living through something, remembering having lived through it, and anticipating living through it again—which perfectly captures the psychological paralysis of modern routine that your initial fragments were exploring.
The Morning That Is Every Morning That Was Yesterday's Morning That Will Be Tomorrow's Morning
Every morning, somewhere, a hand reaches for a phone before feet touch the floor. Every morning, that same hand reaches for that same phone. The hand has reached for the phone every morning for years. The screen lights up with numbers—how many hurt, how many lost, how many angry. The same numbers but different. Different numbers but the same. The heart speeds up. The heart sped up yesterday. The heart will speed up tomorrow. The day hasn't even started, but already it feels heavy. It felt heavy yesterday. It will feel heavy tomorrow. This is every morning. This has been every morning. This will be every morning.
Thousands of people promise themselves they won't check their phones right away. Thousands made this promise yesterday. Thousands will make this promise tomorrow. Most cave while pretending to just check the time. Checking the time means opening the phone. Opening the phone means seeing notifications. Seeing notifications means the promise is broken. The promise was broken yesterday. The promise will be broken tomorrow. The ones who actually make it to breakfast first act like they've climbed Everest. They climbed Everest yesterday too. They'll climb it again tomorrow. Then immediately lose two hours reading about a controversy from 1997. Or 1987. Or 2007. The year changes. The behavior doesn't.
Someone wakes up at 6:30. Their phone is charging on the nightstand. The phone was charging on the nightstand yesterday at 6:30. The phone will be charging on the nightstand tomorrow at 6:30. They usually check it immediately—emails, news, messages. Immediately was yesterday. Immediately is today. Immediately will be tomorrow. This morning they decide to wait until after breakfast. They decided this yesterday morning. They'll decide this tomorrow morning. They make it four minutes before checking the time. Four minutes. 240 seconds. 240 seconds of not checking before checking to check how long they haven't checked. Which means opening the phone. Which means seeing the notifications. Which means the morning is already shaped by what they weren't going to look at. So much for that plan. So much for yesterday's plan. So much for tomorrow's plan.
But this morning, something small happens. Or doesn't happen. Or happens the same way it happened yesterday. The hand pauses. Sets the phone aside. Or doesn't. Feet find the floor first instead. Or they don't. The variation that isn't variation. The change that isn't change. The same morning wearing a slightly different coat.
The Kitchen Cycle Cycling Through Its Cycles
In kitchens everywhere right now, someone just discovered the milk expired yesterday. Someone discovered this yesterday about the day before yesterday's milk. Someone will discover this tomorrow about today's milk. In another kitchen, the same discovery. In another, the same. Millions of people staring at expiration dates that passed while they weren't looking. While they were looking at their phones. While they were promising not to look at their phones.
Someone else is scrubbing at a mark on a fork. The mark is a scratch. The scratch has been there since 2019. It's 2025 now. That's six years. 2,190 days. 52,560 hours of the scratch existing. Someone has tried to clean it approximately 2,190 times. That's once a day for six years. Sometimes twice a day. Sometimes the same person tries twice in one washing. Scrub. Look. Still there. Scrub harder. Look. Still there. The scratch doesn't care about effort. The scratch transcends effort. The scratch is eternal.
This same fork has been confusing people in this household for three years. Or six years. The timeline blurs. Was it always scratched? Was there a before-scratch era? Nobody remembers. Everyone remembers differently. The fork remains. In the drawer. Getting chosen. Getting scrubbed. Getting put back. The cycle of the eternal fork scratch.
The warm water feels good while washing dishes. For about five minutes, they're not thinking about anything. Except they're thinking about not thinking. Which is thinking. Then thinking about the scratch. The scratch that isn't dirt. The scratch that was there yesterday. That will be there tomorrow. Five minutes of dish meditation that isn't meditation because you're scrubbing something that can't be scrubbed away. But you scrub anyway. You scrubbed yesterday. You'll scrub tomorrow.
While coffee brews, someone forgets they're out of milk. They forgot yesterday. They'll forget tomorrow. The coffee brews anyway. Coffee doesn't need permission. Coffee doesn't care about milk. The water boils for tea in another kitchen. The same water boiling the same way it boiled yesterday. Will boil tomorrow. Outside windows, birds build nests, one twig at a time. The bird doesn't read the news. The bird didn't read the news yesterday. Won't read it tomorrow. It just builds. Built yesterday. Will build tomorrow. Twig by twig by twig. Each twig the same. Each twig different. The paradox of twigs.
People buy notebooks thinking this time they'll stay organized. They bought the same notebook last month. A different notebook that was the same notebook. They'll buy another same different notebook next month. The notebook industry stays in business partly because of morning list-makers who make the same lists. By Thursday, the handwriting has degraded into hieroglyphics. It degraded by Thursday last week. It will degrade by Thursday next week. Thursday is when handwriting gives up. Wednesday's hope becomes Thursday's scrawl.
The List That Lists the Listed Lists
They write three things. The same three things. Different but the same: Dental appointment Tuesday—but which Tuesday? Last Tuesday? This Tuesday? Next Tuesday? The Tuesday that exists in the eternal now of unclear scheduling? Sister's birthday (they Google the date because they can never remember if it's the 14th or 15th—it's the 14th. It was the 14th last year. It will be the 14th next year. The 14th is constant. Their memory of the 14th is not). They Googled this yesterday. No, last month. No, last year. They'll Google it tomorrow. Next month. Next year. The 14th remains the 14th while they remain uncertain about the 14th.
"Buy milk" goes on the list. "Buy milk" was on yesterday's list. "Buy milk" was on the list three days ago. The milk isn't bought. The list doesn't care. The list holds "buy milk" with infinite patience. The list has held "buy milk" before. The list will hold "buy milk" again. Sometimes it's "buy almond milk." The specification changes. The not-buying remains constant. The list accumulates versions of the same unbought milk. Regular milk. Almond milk. Oat milk. All unbought. All on lists.
Common entries include appointments—often with the wrong time that gets corrected later. But later never comes. Or later comes and the correction is also wrong. The appointment happens or doesn't. Time moves forward. The list remains confused. Relatives' birthdays frequently require a quick Google search. The same relatives. The same birthdays. The same Google search. The same uncertainty about information that never changes.
They spend ten minutes sketching their coffee mug. The handle looks wrong. It looked wrong yesterday. It will look wrong tomorrow. Like a weird ear. Or a broken thumb. Or something that isn't quite either. They keep drawing anyway. The drawing doesn't improve. It doesn't need to. It's not about the drawing. It's about the ten minutes. The same ten minutes as yesterday. The same ten minutes as tomorrow. The ritual of badly drawing the same mug with the same wrong handle.
The Phone Check Checking Its Checking
At 7:30, they check their phone. Properly check it. Not like the 6:34 check that didn't count. Not like the 6:47 check that was just for the time. The real check. The official check. Seventeen new emails and multiple news alerts. Five emails from the same company about a sale they don't care about. The same sale. Or a different sale that's the same. They unsubscribe. They unsubscribed last month. The month before. They'll unsubscribe next month. The emails don't care. The emails are stronger than unsubscribe. The emails have achieved immortality.
They read through them systematically. Deleting what doesn't need response. But everything needs response. But nothing needs response. The paradox of email. Flagging what does. Flagging the same types of things they flagged yesterday. Will flag tomorrow. One news article is about local budget cuts. There's always an article about budget cuts. Different budgets. Same cuts. Another is about a conflict overseas. Different conflict. Same overseas. Or same conflict, different overseas. The variables change. The formula remains.
They start reading comments. Stop. Start reading comments. Stop. The comments are always there. Were there yesterday. Will be there tomorrow. They catch themselves, close the app. Open it again. Close it. The dance of the app. The app knows. The app waits. The app always wins eventually.
Later, when it's time to learn what's happening in the world, the approach is different. Or the same. Different but the same. Like a doctor checking symptoms—careful, purposeful, not panicked. But also panicked. Carefully panicked. Purposefully panicked. The headlines shout. Headlines have always shouted. Headlines will always shout. Shouting doesn't make something more true. But we check anyway. Checked yesterday. Will check tomorrow.
The Walking Meditation That Isn't Meditation
They go for a twenty-minute walk. Doctors recommend this. Doctors recommended this yesterday. Doctors will recommend this tomorrow. For mental health. For physical health. For health that's both and neither. What they don't mention: roughly one in ten people doing this will realize partway through they're wearing mismatched shoes. One gray, one black. One navy, one black. The colors are close enough. Everything is close enough. Nobody notices. Everybody notices. Nobody cares. The shoes don't match. The shoes have never matched. The shoes will never match.
You'll spend half of it composing arguments against people you'll never actually confront. The same arguments you composed yesterday. The same people you didn't confront yesterday. Won't confront tomorrow. The arguments get refined. More pointed. More devastating. More useless. On the walk, they see the same houses they always see. The same houses in the same places being the same houses. The houses were there yesterday. The houses will be there tomorrow. The permanence of houses. The permanence of seeing the same houses.
A neighbor is putting out trash bins. The same neighbor. Different trash, same bins. Or same trash, different day. They nod at each other. Both of them do that polite smile-grimace that isn't quite either. It's not a smile. It's not a grimace. It's the thing between. The thing that has no name. They did this yesterday. They'll do this tomorrow. This is the extent of their interaction, but it registers as human contact. This counts. It counted yesterday. It will count tomorrow. Neither knows if you're supposed to do this every single time or if once a week covers it. The social contract remains unclear. They follow it anyway.
The polite grimace-smile exchanged between neighbors who don't know each other's names happens approximately 3 million times per day in suburbs worldwide. That's 3 million uncertain facial expressions. 3 million people wondering if this is required. 3 million yesterday. 3 million tomorrow. The aggregate uncertainty of suburban acknowledgment.
The Work Hours Working Through Work
Back home, they work. During lunch, instead of reading news on their phone—but they do read news on their phone. Then feel bad about it. Then read more to feel better. Then feel worse. The cycle of lunch news. They eat while looking out the window. Or at their screen. Or both. Multitasking that isn't multi and barely tasking.
A utility crew is fixing something across the street. The same something or different something. Something always needs fixing. At any given moment during work hours, someone is eating lunch while watching a utility crew where one person digs while three others supervise. This ratio has been consistent across all cultures and time periods where utilities have existed. One Mesopotamian dug while three Mesopotamians supervised. One Roman dug while three Romans supervised. One person will dig in 2075 while three supervise. The eternal equation of supervised digging.
This seems about right for most group projects. One does. Three watch. Sometimes four watch. Never fewer than three. This is also what's happening in the world—people maintaining infrastructure, doing their jobs. Or watching other people do jobs. Or pretending to do jobs while thinking about the milk they forgot to buy.
Group texts arrive. Group texts always arrive. "Did you see that article about—" The article changes. The question remains. "Can we please talk about anything else." The plea is constant. Was constant yesterday. Will be constant tomorrow. Text conversations regularly include the phrase "let's talk about literally anything else." Literally has lost meaning. Everything has lost meaning. Anything else is still everything we're trying to avoid.
Their friend texts: "Did you see that article about—"
They reply: "Let's talk about literally anything else."
The friend sends back: "Fair. I found a recipe for banana bread that uses mayo."
They discuss this for ten minutes. Neither of them bakes. Neither baked yesterday. Neither will bake tomorrow. The banana bread remains theoretical. Has always been theoretical. Will always be theoretical.
The topic that follows is often baking, even between people who don't bake. Especially between people who don't bake. No one knows why banana bread specifically comes up so often. It came up yesterday. It will come up tomorrow. Banana bread is the universal deflection. The safe harbor of conversation. Banana bread with mayo. Without mayo. The mayo variable in the banana bread equation that produces no banana bread.
Or a debate about whether that actor was in that other thing. They weren't. They weren't yesterday. They won't be tomorrow. But the debate continues. Has always continued. Will always continue.
The Plant Paradox Paradoxing Its Paradox
That evening, they water a houseplant they've been neglecting. The same plant. The same neglect. The same watering that's both too late and too early. Never on time. It's somehow both dying and growing a new leaf. It was dying and growing yesterday. It will be dying and growing tomorrow. Plants are confusing. Plants have always been confusing. Plants will always be confusing.
Every houseplant is both dying and sprouting new growth. This is the universal plant experience. The shared reality of plant ownership. Ask a plant person to explain this and they'll say something about nitrogen. It's not nitrogen. It's never nitrogen. Nobody knows what nitrogen does. They said nitrogen yesterday. They'll say nitrogen tomorrow. They don't know either. They're just guessing. Have always been guessing. Will always be guessing.
Houseplants in various stages of decline are simultaneously growing new leaves in millions of homes. Right now. This moment. Dying and growing. The plant doesn't care about the contradiction. The plant embodies the contradiction. Is the contradiction. Botanists can explain this. Plant owners cannot. The gap between knowing and understanding. The eternal gap.
The "one good thing that happened today" journal technique, recommended by therapists, frequently includes entries like "remembered to eat lunch" and "answered that email from last week." The bar is on the floor. The bar was on the floor yesterday. The bar will be on the floor tomorrow. We step over it. We've always stepped over it. "The car started"—cars are supposed to start. "Found matching socks"—socks exist in pairs. "Plant didn't die"—the plant is dying, just slowly. These count. They counted yesterday. They'll count tomorrow. Researchers say this still counts. Researchers said this counted yesterday. Will say it counts tomorrow.
The Evening Cycle of Evening Cycles
In the evening, hands that scrolled through tragedy now hold a pen. Or don't. Hold a paintbrush. Or don't. A musical instrument. Or don't. Another person's hand. Or don't. They make something—maybe just dinner. Burned the rice a little. Burned it yesterday too. Will burn it tomorrow. It's fine. It was fine. It will be fine. Maybe just a joke that makes someone laugh. The same joke. Different words, same structure. Creation is the antidote to destruction, even in the smallest doses. The dose was small yesterday. Will be small tomorrow. Still counts. Always counts. Has to count.
Before bed, they write down one thing from the day that went well. They try to write "Finished the project report" then cross it out because they actually only finished most of it. Most of it yesterday. Most of it tomorrow. Never all of it. They write "Remembered to eat lunch." Eating is not an achievement. Except it is. It was yesterday. It will be tomorrow. The achievement of the ordinary. The celebration of the minimum.
The Phone Charging Saga That Charges On
They charge their phone in the kitchen instead of the bedroom. This is the healthy choice. Was the healthy choice yesterday. Will be the healthy choice tomorrow that they won't make. Then they remember they use it as an alarm clock. They remembered this yesterday. They'll remember this tomorrow. They bring it back to the bedroom but put it across the room on the dresser. Compromise. Everything is compromise. Was compromise yesterday. Will be compromise tomorrow.
The old "charge your phone in another room" sleep trick fails the moment you remember you need it for your alarm. Failed yesterday. Will fail tomorrow. The phone-in-another-room sleep strategy has a 50% failure rate due to alarm clock needs. 50% yesterday. 50% tomorrow. The consistency of failure. The compromise—phone across the room—has a 100% rate of requiring at least one midnight check to confirm the alarm is set. It always is. It always was. It always will be. The person checks anyway. Checked yesterday. Will check tomorrow.
At 10:45, they get up to check that they actually set the alarm. 10:45 is the universal checking time. Was yesterday. Will be tomorrow. They did set it. While they're there, they quickly check—no, they close it. Open it. Close it. The dance continues. Maybe just the weather for tomorrow? Okay, just the weather. The weather that doesn't change. That didn't change from when they checked at dinner. At lunch. At breakfast. Won't change before morning.
Weather apps receive their highest traffic at 10:45 PM from people who said they weren't going to look at their phones before bed. Said it yesterday. Will say it tomorrow. The weather hasn't changed since they checked at dinner. Won't change by morning. Partly cloudy. Always partly cloudy. Even when it's not partly cloudy, it's partly cloudy somewhere. The universal partly cloudy.
The Pattern Recognition of Recognized Patterns
These patterns repeat everywhere. Repeated yesterday everywhere. Will repeat tomorrow everywhere. In apartments, houses, different countries, across economic levels. The details vary—tea instead of coffee. But it's the same. Bicycle instead of walk. Same. Cactus instead of houseplant. Same dying and growing. Same confusion. The variables change. The equation remains. Has always remained. Will always remain.
The milk gets purchased eventually. Or doesn't. Didn't yesterday. Might tomorrow. Might not. The plant survival rate hovers around 60%. Hovered yesterday. Will hover tomorrow. The consistency of inconsistent plant survival. The mismatched shoes have never mattered to anyone except the person wearing them. Didn't matter yesterday. Won't matter tomorrow. But they think about them. Thought about them yesterday. Will think about them tomorrow.
This is what maintaining equilibrium looks like at scale. Looked like yesterday. Will look like tomorrow. Not perfection, not failure, just millions of small negotiations between intention and reality, repeated daily, getting incrementally better or at least not notably worse. Or getting worse so slowly we don't notice. Or noticing but pretending not to notice.
Tomorrow, the same patterns will repeat with slight variations. Someone new will discover they've been using the wrong coffee maker setting. Someone discovered this yesterday. Someone will discover this tomorrow. It's always being discovered, never remembered. The coffee maker keeps the secret. Keeps it every day. Will keep it tomorrow. Someone else will successfully wait until after breakfast to check their phone, feel proud, then immediately fall into a two-hour scroll. The pride before the scroll. The scroll after the pride. The inevitable sequence.
The Milk Remains (On the List, Unbought, Eternal)
Neither person is doing it wrong. Both are doing it wrong. All are doing it wrong. Nobody is doing it wrong. There is no wrong. There is no right. There is only the doing and the not doing and the doing of the not doing. The milk is still on the list from yesterday. Will still be on the list tomorrow. The list is patient. Has always been patient. Will always be patient. The list has nothing but time. The milk has already expired anyway. Expired yesterday. Will expire tomorrow. The cycle of unbought, expired milk.
It'll get bought when it gets bought. Or it won't. The fork still has that scratch. Had it yesterday. Will have it tomorrow. The scratch from 2019 traveling through time, unchanged, unchangeable. The plant has grown another confusing leaf. Lost another. Net zero. Always net zero. The math of houseplants.
This is the part no one posts about, writes about, makes documentaries about. Because everyone is living it. Lived it yesterday. Will live it tomorrow. The invisibility of the universal experience. The shared tedium that connects us all. But it's most of what actually happens. Happened yesterday. Will happen tomorrow. And somehow, it's enough. Was enough yesterday. Will be enough tomorrow. Has to be enough. The sufficiency of the insufficient.
The Morning That Begins Again Beginning Again
Every morning is a chance to begin again. Was a chance yesterday. Will be a chance tomorrow. Not because yesterday didn't matter, but because today still does. Did yesterday. Will tomorrow. The hand reaches out—but this time, it reaches for something that builds rather than breaks. Reached yesterday. Will reach tomorrow. Or it doesn't. One choice. The same choice. One morning. Every morning. One person remembering that they're not just a witness to the world, but a participant in it. Forgetting. Remembering. Forgetting again.
The bird completes another row of twigs. Completed one yesterday. Will complete one tomorrow. The bird doesn't count the rows. Doesn't need to. The tea is ready. Was ready. Will be ready. The coffee is black because the milk wasn't bought. Was black yesterday. Will be black tomorrow. The day begins. Began. Will begin. It's always beginning. Always the same beginning. Different but the same. The same but different.
And in that participation—small, ordinary, barely noticed—lives the quiet revolution of people who refuse to be paralyzed, who insist on adding their own light, however modest, to the sum of light. The light that was added yesterday. That will be added tomorrow. The accumulation of small lights that might or might not make a difference. But we add them anyway. Added yesterday. Will add tomorrow.
The fragments between thoughts, those pauses in the text—they're where possibility lives, where the future hasn't yet crystallized into inevitability. The same possibility as yesterday. The same future that hasn't crystallized. Won't crystallize tomorrow either. The perpetual almost. The eternal not-quite-yet. That space between thoughts holds what can't quite be articulated—the grief for what's being lost. Was being lost yesterday. Will be lost tomorrow. The fear of what's emerging. But also the stubborn insistence that another way remains possible. Remained possible yesterday. Will remain possible tomorrow. The possibility of possibility.
The Truth of Truthful Repetition
We're drowning in content while thirsting for clarity. Were drowning yesterday. Will drown tomorrow. The challenge isn't just identifying outright falsehoods, but navigating the more insidious distortions. The selective framings. The manufactured controversies. The way legitimate concerns get amplified into panic or minimized into irrelevance. Yesterday's panic is today's irrelevance. Today's irrelevance is tomorrow's panic. The cycle spins. Has always spun. Will always spin.
Someone opens a window. Fresh air moves through a room that had grown stale. The room grows stale again. The window closes. Opens. Closes. The rhythm of windows and staleness and the promise of fresh air that becomes stale air that needs fresh air again. A neighbor walks by with their dog. The same neighbor. Different dog. No, same dog. They wave. This too is news—that people still wave. Waved yesterday. Will wave tomorrow. That dogs still wag their tails. That morning still comes no matter what happened yesterday. No matter what will happen tomorrow.
Sometimes the most important stories speak quietly. Spoke quietly yesterday. Will speak quietly tomorrow. A community garden that started in an empty lot. Students teaching grandparents to use computers. The same computers that need teaching every time something updates. Someone who changed their mind about something they'd believed for years. Then changed it back. Then changed it again. These stories don't trend. Didn't trend yesterday. Won't trend tomorrow. They don't get clicks. But they're happening everywhere, all the time. Were happening. Will happen.
When the difficult news comes—and it always comes. Came yesterday. Will come tomorrow—it lands differently now. Or exactly the same. Different but the same. Not on an empty stomach and a racing heart, but on a foundation of something steadier. Or not steadier. The same unsteady steadiness as yesterday. As tomorrow. The problems are still real. Were real. Will be real. People still hurt each other. Systems still fail. Failed yesterday. Will fail tomorrow. But alongside these truths live other truths: People also help each other. Helped yesterday. Will help tomorrow. New solutions get discovered. Someone who fell down yesterday stands up today. Falls down again tomorrow. Stands up again the day after.
The Final Beginning That Isn't Final
The world needs people who stay informed. Needed them yesterday. Will need them tomorrow. But it also needs people who stay whole. Stayed whole yesterday. Will stay whole tomorrow. Who remember that despair is not a requirement for caring. Wasn't yesterday. Won't be tomorrow. Who know that taking care of their one small corner helps the whole picture, even when they can't see how. Couldn't see yesterday. Won't see tomorrow. But taking care anyway.
Looking ahead towards days where, when more peace is a reality. The same looking ahead as yesterday. As tomorrow. Where we live and overseas. The same where. The same overseas. What matters most is enabling more truthful journalism to somehow prevent weaponized chaotic and organized human on human violence. The same violence with different names. Different violence with the same names. The distinction between chaotic and organized violence that matters and doesn't matter. That mattered yesterday. Will matter tomorrow.
Immediately after rolling out of bed—the same immediate. The same rolling. The same bed. Researching important online sources. The same sources. Different but the same. Taking notes while listening to True Facts podcast episodes. The same notes. Different episodes, same facts. Same episodes, different listening. Drawing with full concentration to emphasize life over any growing death obsessions. The same drawing. The same concentration. The same emphasis. The death obsessions that don't solve problems. Didn't solve them yesterday. Won't solve them tomorrow. Are not at all useful. Were not useful. Will not be useful. The obsessions that obsess about obsessing.
The perceivably honest individuals who lie to everyone and themselves. Lied yesterday. Will lie tomorrow. The self-deception that may be more dangerous than conscious manipulation because it's so much harder to combat. Was harder yesterday. Will be harder tomorrow. How do you reach someone who genuinely believes their distortions are clarity? You don't. You didn't yesterday. You won't tomorrow. But you try. Tried. Will try.
The milk is still on the list. Was on the list. Will be on the list. The list is still on the counter. Was on the counter. Will be on the counter. The counter is still in the kitchen. Was in the kitchen. Will be in the kitchen. The kitchen is still in the house. The house is still standing. Was standing. Will stand tomorrow. Probably.
The plant grows its new leaf anyway. Grew one yesterday. Will grow one tomorrow. While losing another leaf. Lost one yesterday. Will lose one tomorrow. The eternal exchange. The forever transaction between growth and decline.
And somehow—somehow yesterday, somehow tomorrow—it's enough. Or we pretend it's enough. Pretended yesterday. Will pretend tomorrow. The sufficiency of pretending sufficiency. The completeness of incompletion. The wholeness of the broken parts that keep breaking and getting glued back together with coffee without milk and notebooks full of illegible reminders and plants that won't commit to living or dying.
The weather tomorrow? Partly cloudy. Was partly cloudy yesterday. Will be partly cloudy the day after tomorrow. Even when it changes, it's partly cloudy in our memory. In our expectation. In the weather app we check at 10:45.
The milk is still on the list.
The milk is still on the list.
The milk is still on the list.
And the list continues.
