Leaning

A nautilus, trailing through midnight water, siphon drawing and releasing. Behind it: every home it has ever outgrown, sealed in nacre and held in the spiral, each chamber a perfect record of a smaller body. The new chamber opens ahead — roomier, the same shape, scaled by a ratio the nautilus did not choose and does not calculate. Growth moves by proportion. The draw predates decision.

When we get what we need and want, we grow. The old chamber does not disappear. The spiral holds it, buoyant with trapped gas, the weight of the past becoming ballast that keeps the present level.

What draws me? Every sealed chamber answers: this. Then this. Then this.

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