The Drip. Content Warning.
The sink has been dripping for three hours this evening.
Not the gentle kind of domestic drip that collapses into white noise after a while, but a metronome that has decided it is God. A single drop fat enough to announce itself. A second of silence. Another drop, louder, as if it fell from a cathedral ceiling, traveling through the rusted throat of the pipe into some private underworld. It reverberates. It trespasses. It colonizes my brain until my thoughts are no longer mine but tiny raindrops organizing themselves into a march.
