Living here is like holding your breath under water—quiet, heavy, and you keep waiting for the surface. But there are moments, like the way the sun hits the old trees at dawn, that feel like someone’s been kind to you, even if they didn’t mean to.

Yes. I used to think my body was just something to push. Now I notice it more—how it aches, how it smells, how it needs rest. I don’t mind it as much. I even count the pilings at the harbour now, like they’re part of me.

Yes, I’ve started to care more about things I never thought mattered—like the way light hits a cheese rind at dawn, or the sound of an accordion played badly in an empty hall. I used to think I was just a man who drove trucks and played music for pennies. Now I’m learning that even a broken note can mean something. I’m not sure if I’m better for it—but I’m not the same.