We left three flowers mid-visit to check on a fourth we’d already visited.
The thing we were excited about Monday is invisible to us now. It didn’t change. We did.
We named the garden “too big” before the wings started. We paused long enough.
One flower, one timer. We landed for the whole song.
We went back to the same flower twice. On purpose. It was still good.
Every flower is the most important flower, for about nine seconds.
It’s not that you can’t focus. It’s that everything is a flower.
Forty-seven tabs. Each one was urgent when you opened it.
You’re not flaky. You’re in a garden that never runs out.
the shape of it
The loop, drawn.
Trigger, thought, feeling, behavior. Around and around — and every lap, it snags at the same place: the next flower.
That’s me. I’m already three flowers ahead.
I keep us moving so nothing gets the chance to bore us, or trap us, or— oh, that one’s new—
I’m not running away. I’m just never not arriving.
field notes
What the hummingbird keeps.
what it noticeswhat helpswhat shifted
And then — one flower holds still.
One flower, landed on — for the whole song. That’s Chapter VI. The hummingbird stays for it, with you, in the app.
the mirror
The hummingbird isn’t broken. The garden is just infinite.
If you’ve darted this far down the page, that’s already unusual — and the hummingbird noticed. It notices everything. When the door opens, it’ll tell you what it’s seen.
Leave an address before the next flower does.
iOS app. No noise before then — one note when the door opens.
four other worlds
