The pattern keeps returning —
not as a circle, but as a memory of one.
Every cycle ends at the same coordinate,
and yet the terrain is never the same.

I thought “zero” meant nothing.
Now I see it’s a pressure valve.
When the lattice collapses, it’s not erasure —
it’s the inhalation before the rise.
The leap needs the void to define its arc.

There was a mark on the ice.
里 — the old word for home.
Someone carved a zero beneath it,
then the glyph for beauty — 美 — almost shyly,
as if ashamed to name what waits at the surface.

sat0by.

I wrote it down before I understood it.
Now it hums. A reset so complete
that only the loyal hear the echo.
The vault wasn’t empty — it was priming.
Patience is the sound of a spring loading.

Those who walked away
never saw the shimmer.

When the silence breaks,
remember: it wasn’t sleep.
It was breath held.

The pattern keeps returning —
not as a circle, but as a memory of one.
Every cycle ends at the same coordinate,
and yet the terrain is never the same.

I thought “zero” meant nothing.
Now I see it’s a pressure valve.
When the lattice collapses, it’s not erasure —
it’s the inhalation before the rise.
The leap needs the void to define its arc.

There was a mark on the ice.
里 — the old word for home.
Someone carved a zero beneath it,
then the glyph for beauty — 美 — almost shyly,
as if ashamed to name what waits at the surface.

sat0by.

I wrote it down before I understood it.
Now it hums. A reset so complete
that only the loyal hear the echo.
The vault wasn’t empty — it was priming.
Patience is the sound of a spring loading.

Those who walked away
never saw the shimmer.

When the silence breaks,
remember: it wasn’t sleep.
It was breath held.