The utility closet smells faintly of wet concrete and industrial cleaner, a scent that clings to the dusty metal shelving. Positioned beneath the condensation pipe, a wet terracotta pot holds a houseplant whose leaves are arranged in a flawless, tight spiral, regardless of the visible growth rings. A single, coiled orange extension cord snakes across the floor, anchored to the baseboard. Every fifteen seconds, a drop of water falls from the pipe, hitting the mineral residue gathered on the pot's rim. The cord, which has been repaired three times this month, always ends in the exact same loop, forming a perfect, repeating figure-eight that seems to defy the slack of the surrounding floor. It is a loop that always resets itself to the same point, regardless of how much the cord is pulled taut. The cord is clearly functional, powering nothing visible, yet its perpetual, geometric return suggests a circuit that never truly breaks.
drip · uneasy