The page feels unforgiving; eyes fixed on silent pale light, mind wrapped up in the clutter downstairs or the argument left stewing around the corner. The words don’t always bend as they ought too. Sometimes ink darkens the blank paper, a black eye under ballpoint pen. Or the cursor blinking, waiting like the baskets of unfolded clothes, like the silent stale of routine without an apology. The walls are swollen with busy thoughts, crumbled lists that disappear in mornings and rumble during sleep. Like the page, the laundry, the dust in the corners, the argument feels unforgiving. But forgiveness does not swirl as speckles of dust in sunlight; it is the screaming sweep of clean on the floors, where time is lost in the shine, and the page is covered in words.