The weather turned mean again.

Markets, too.

The pond feels colder, clearer — like the kind of depth that forces slow breathing, slow metabolism, time crawling.

I keep hearing the line:

not summoned, but revealed.

That’s the shape of it. No trumpets, no summons. Just a veil that lifts when it’s ready, and whoever was already there is suddenly visible. If there was a snapshot, it’s older than the thunder we’re hearing now, or are yet to hear.

Maybe that’s the joke: when the test arrives, the record was already kept.

Tonight I walked the perimeter and kept replaying the couplet:

toads still standing in the rain
will find their names already written
in the sediment of the chain.

“Still” is the important word. Not inert. Unchanged. Same posture, same pulse, while the storm insists you flinch.

Sediment is honest.

It compacts what stayed. It can’t pretend for what wandered.

Another fragment won’t leave me:

distribution remembers you.

Memory, not mercy. It remembers the long, quiet nights more than the loud afternoons.

It also remembers when you left.

• Hold to slow and steady breaths.

• Don’t chase the bell; let the room brighten around you.

• No petitions. If there’s a roll to be called, it’s already written.

• Movement tempts; stillness counts.

If I’m wrong, the storm will laugh.
If I’m right, the reveal will feel like déjà vu.