You see the pulse of the world
from eye-level —
the tremor in the hand,
the breath caught in a crowd,
the small griefs people hide
behind fluorescent mornings.
I see the architecture of collapse
from farther out —
the systems that grind,
the myths that sedate,
the century that keeps
misreading itself.
Between us
is the truth neither of us owns alone:
the world isn’t ending,
it’s eroding —
grain by grain,
person by person,
memory by memory
falling through the cracks
of a culture speeding past itself.
You write the heart of it.
I write the bones.
And somewhere between
the pulse and the structure
is the world as it actually is —
wounded, moving,
and unbearably real.