They gather in the grooves, soft and unseen, A chorus of echoes where thoughts have been. A flicker, a murmur, a doubtful refrain, A whisper of truth, beneath the strain. One hums of longing, of futures untold, Another recalls the missteps of growing old. Change the world!—Or get back on track! Feed your ambition!—Or maybe have a snack? You're a genius!—You haven't a clue! Everything's fine!—You're doomed, you're through!...

At 5 a.m., the bakery is silent, except for the scratch of Madame Thorne’s pen. She believed fortunes should be handwritten. Typed words felt hollow, devoid of the weight true destiny deserved. She shaped each cookie with practiced precision, leaving just enough space to slide in a tiny slip of paper. Each cookie was a secret wrapped in dough, each personal, each burdened by fate. Then came a sharp knock. It was not polit...

Breathe in peace, that’s what they say, to reduce anxiety, better yet, take a holiday. Imagine a white sandy beach, oh, I've done that before. Closing my eyes, all I see is a door. Daring myself to open it, greeted by Munch’s Scream. Why is stress like a very bad dream? I slam it shut. I prefer it that way. Letting tension manifest in my body, erupting out in illness someday.