5:40 a.m. The screen glows before I do. Ten minutes awake, already hunched like a gargoyle, my cat watching me with the kind of disappointed patience that only animals can muster. I stepped past him. Cold floors, groggy head, no water in me yet. And Slack, of all things, was my first embrace of the day. A colleague’s mother collapsed yesterday, her heart breaking in the plainest way hearts can. The thought lodges itself in my chest: I could die today. And what a stupid scene it would be. Posture like a crumpled crow, eyes strained on digital chatter, the sun not even up yet. I tell myself this is for purpose. To help animals, to save a few lives that aren’t mine. But is that a reason to forfeit my own? As if skipping the moment somehow makes me more useful. If disorientation is the theme, then I am playing it well. Because movement without bearings isn’t progress, it’s just a longer walk back. What is disorientation, anyway, but forgetting to look at the signs? My signs: dry mouth, stiff neck, heart thudding like it doesn’t trust me. All pointing at something simple: slow down. Drink water. Stretch. Let the cat climb into my lap. That would be a better obituary than this posture. Still, I write it here - because even a misstep feels romantic when you know the curtain could fall today.