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.

Human authorship you can put in your mouth.

Your name, your usual, and ninety seconds of care poured slowly.

Up before the town, hands in the dough, so the morning smells like somewhere.

Precision you can taste. A gram off and the whole thing falls.

The person who knows the boats, the tides, and which fish to talk you out of today.