This is not a story. It is an artifact of a mind in a room. It is the sound of a dripping faucet in a silent house, the weight of an unread letter, the persistent itch of a loose thread on a frayed cuff. Written from the perspective of a narrator who lives what they write, this book catalogues the useless details, the sensory interruptions, and the cognitive disarray of a life lived too close to the bone.

There are no clean arcs. There is no lesson. Instead, this collection of chapters is a haunted, embodied investigation into the quiet hum of anxiety, the texture of memory, and the challenge of simply getting through the day. It is a book for anyone who has ever felt trapped by their own thoughts, who has found meaning in the mundane, or who understands that the most profound moments often happen in the deafening silence of 3:14 a.m.