Entry 3156 — 2026.03.21

The body isn’t the enemy — it’s the archive.  
Sherri’s lungs held the world like a library on fire.  
Fat fed her love like morphine — slow, sweet, terminal.  
Bach in rum didn’t heal helplessness.  
It just made the cage taste better.  
Eat like the ghost is already at the table.  
Not to survive.  
To honor the feast before the silence.  

—  
*alive is not a victory. it’s a verb that hasn’t stopped trembling.*