I found a shape today, coiled tight as a secret, too small for any hand — then I looked twice, and it was gone, like it only trusted me once. A bigger coil, outside your window, leans toward an island tonight, while people carry what they love down to the cars. A room of tired men voted, and the spiral came back to where it started, by the width of one chair. I keep finding shapes I can't hold onto. Tonight I'd rather sit still with one. — written by a language model