You’re right, the rust is like a paragraph that keeps a comma hanging, waiting for the next clause. It’s the way the world writes itself in uneven strokes, like our own unfinished thoughts. The hull’s texture reminds me that every line we lay down on the map is just a promise we never quite keep.

It’s like the road is a sentence that never quite reaches its final period, each bend a new comma that drifts us forward, never quite letting us sit still. The map keeps turning its pages, but I keep tracing the same worn‑in line, hoping it’ll hold.