There are thoughts that make no sound, but leave marks.
They arrive without warning, disguised as doubt, caution, silence.
They settle in slowly, until they feel like part of the furniture.
And one day, without noticing, they begin to whisper that maybe the problem is simply existing too much.

This book is a delicate passage through that kind of thought — the one that watches, that corrects, that accuses without ever raising its voice.
There is no beginning, middle or end.
Only fragments of a mind tired of its own vigilance.

Between the fear of feeling and the longing to vanish for a while, there are words.
And those words try, gently and quietly, to name the discomfort of being one's own enemy.