There’s always been a trickling feeling where shutters and fans twirl during warm nights and a younger version of ourselves watches the sweat trickle off bodies we admire and burn holes onto the warm surface our faces lie flat against. I think the spaces we occupy have been moulded into a state of static that the coincidences of our lives reject. But I can hear the bubbling of the pot over the meal of my youth, and I can see the image blur over the eyes watching over. Maybe the time it takes to cook is the time it takes to remember.