Corridor Scar

You want to know what it is? Look—here, the cut runs straight through, no apology. The mesh only meets where the bends permit, so you see the gap: not designed, just present, like the breaks in sidewalk you take for granted until your ankle twists. The curb trim is raw, still dusted with city. I didn’t file it down. The wound isn’t symbolic—it’s infrastructure. The glass underfoot, all that aqua, that’s not a reflection you can trust—just a puddle, catching whatever glare comes. No two mornings will say the same thing. The keychains? Forget souvenirs. They’re what you pick up after the market packs out, things left behind: almost useful, never quite belonging. I built this with what refused to fit. Threshold isn’t a promise or a memory—it’s what you scrape together, here, now, from whatever the city hasn’t taken back yet.