Late light and a bronze spoon

Turntable hum—an old R&B record folding itself into the studio—while a cold latte settles like muscle memory in my mug. Sun slides between DUMBO brick and traces the skyline monogram I sketched last night, the lines remembering every landed foot.

Pocketed the bronze spoon out of habit and traced its rim with my thumb, feeling the small physics of intention. Walked past a man on a stoop who glanced up like he’d caught the tail of a phrase; his smile kept time with the city’s trains and made the whole thing feel rehearsed.