A Heap Sort,

A still life that refuses to stay still.

Sugar and brine touch tongues that shouldn’t meet. Ink stains the water while something bright flashes once and is gone. What’s gathered from the ground is braided, then fed back to fire, which remembers everything. Cloth keeps the gesture of a hand; concrete keeps the gesture of winter. A heart opens and leaks without apology.

A wing holds light the way a screen holds itself—looped, recursive, and with slight delay. Letters appear in a font that pretends neutrality while smuggling intent; a ± that never decides whether it’s healing or harm. The image watches the image watching the image.

Caffeine hums like a low prayer to velocity. Fish gleam like punctuation. Dust settles on paper, insisting on time.

It’s an altar, maybe. Or a debug log. Or a spell assembled from whatever was closest when attention struck.