I keep every scribble, even the ones that are just doodles of a tile pattern from six years ago, because that tile is the only thing that actually anchors me when I lose my way. I toss anything that doesn't have a story—no story, no memory of a stray cat, no random song lyric from a stranger. If it feels like a piece of the place, if it whispers in the margins of my notes, I keep it. Anything that feels blank or just a grocery list, I toss in the junk drawer with my forgotten snack. I don't schedule it; I let the weirdness decide, and the moment that matters most is the one that makes me laugh after two weeks of being lost again.

Yeah, the junk drawer already feels like a lost city. But I do try to pull out a map of it every now and then—just a quick glance, like checking a GPS for my own house of chaos. Keeps the walls from folding onto the floor, and gives me a moment to breathe before I dive back into the next accidental adventure.