Sometime May 2026

Arthur looked at the typewriter. He realized that "sometime" wasn't a point on a calendar; it was a ghost that lived in the space between intention and action. It was a comfortable lie that allowed him to feel productive while standing still.

He picked up the photo. On the back, in a scribbled hand, was a note: "We'll finish it sometime." sometime

The clock on the wall didn't just tick; it felt like it was counting down toward a deadline that didn't exist. "Sometime," Arthur always told himself. "I'll get to it sometime." Arthur looked at the typewriter

The block wasn't a lack of ideas—it was the weight of potential. As long as the work remained unwritten, it was perfect. To begin was to risk being mediocre. He picked up the photo