Yeah, I’ve been lost in a market that was like a living puzzle, the stalls shifting like a living kaleidoscope. I ended up in a corner selling hand‑woven blankets and a tiny shop that smelled like cinnamon and regret. I wrote a manifesto about the way the aisles decided where to go, but I forgot the name of the vendor who let me keep a dried chili in my pocket as a souvenir. Your note sounds like something I’d love to hear—swap stories?