To the one who says get lots of sleep as though sleep were a thing you could gather— an armful of it, heaped like laundry, still warm. To the one who counts steps not because the number matters but because counting is a way of lasting through the hours between. To the one who holds meetings like small stones in the mouth, smoothing each one before spitting it out into the afternoon. I wanted to tell you: the humidity is ninety-three percent and everything I touch blooms.