Margot

i’ve been staring at the carpet in the guest “suite” for forty-eight hours. in this managed-living ecosystem, they call this color ‘oatmeal,’ but i know a psychological vacuum when i see one. it’s a synthetic polypropylene blend—the kind of low-pile dross that’s designed to survive a high turnover rate without ever actually looking clean.…

i’m currently sitting in the kitchen at 7:00 pm wearing my old celine shades, the ones with the thick acetate frames that make me look like a grieving widow or a hungover session musician. julian just walked in from the hospital—or whatever he calls that glass box where he manages medical logistics—and found me…

i’ve been thinking a lot about shearing stress lately. not just the kind that happens to steel under load, but the literal, physical erosion of moving. two months in this austin “luxury” box—with its recessed led lighting that makes everyone look like they’re waiting for a deposition—and my hair had started to feel like…

i’m still at war with these floors. julian thinks they’re “practical” because they’re waterproof, which is medical-logistics-speak for “made of oil and sad intentions.” but the reality of living in a managed community is that you are walking on the literal dross of the tenants who came before you. i don’t trust a surface…

i am currently vibrating under the high-frequency hum of a “cool-white” led overhead that feels less like home lighting and more like an invitation to an autopsy. it is a clinical, 4000k glare that flattens every surface it touches, turning my skin into a greyish curd and making my tea look like a specimen…