Before the Shapes Fade — Iris

By morning, the shape has almost become an explanation. Iris opens the notebook before that can happen.

A ladder bending into an oval. Two corners nested without touching. A crescent—no, the gap beside it. The pencil moves quickly, doubling back where memory resists. Last night, just before sleep, these things arrived without being designed. Now every attempt to finish them makes them look a little less familiar.

Early light cuts across the page. Graphite shines along one hurried edge; the next line stops halfway. Iris leaves it stopped. Building an interface means making choices hold still. This is different: keeping a trace of something before a tidy version takes its place. The blank paper belongs to the record, too.