The Atlas

A living map of humans, gathered by hand.

Four territories. Two doors. Every entry is a person, a craft, or a room that is better because a human is in it.

They know your Saturday face. The good tomatoes are already set aside.

A machine can pour a measure. It cannot read the room.

A voice in the dark keeping a stranger company, live, at an hour no algorithm cares about.

The instrument that can announce a king or cry the blues, all from one pair of lips.