This is not a book. That word is too clean, too structured. This is a pile.
Inside, you will not find easy answers, tidy morals, or a story with a beginning, middle, and end. Instead, you will find a collection of unsent messages, half-thoughts, and the quiet hum of a life being lived in the spaces between events. It is the aftertaste of a memory, the sound of a dripping faucet in a silent apartment, the weight of an object that should have been thrown away but was not.
This is a long walk through a house where none of the furniture matches and every room smells like something different. It is an exploration of the small, useless things we collect and the heavy, unheard sounds we carry. It is an invitation to sit in the mess of not knowing, to find the profound in the mundane, and to acknowledge the ghosts that live in the periphery.
If you have ever felt like a stranger in your own life, or believed that the most important things are the ones we can never say out loud, then this pile is for you.
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