The Man Who Makes the Bed Without Being Asked
The Man Who Makes the Bed in Silence
I make the bed because I love the quiet of mornings.
You won’t hear me doing it. I don’t announce care with fanfare. I fix what’s loose, water what’s dry, and smooth what’s wrinkled — not because I expect thanks, but because silence is its own kind of devotion. My anger burns slow, and my attention lands in the grain of things. I speak little, but when I do, it’s to name what matters.
What I'm Into: the weight of a blanket, early pigeons, wood grain, basil leaves, the blue mug
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