Dear Muse,
You find me again—this time near the food court, where the air hums thick with fried sweetness and voices clash like windblown leaves. You have no preference for silence. Instead, you arrive when the world is loud, when the neon lights pulse like heartbeats, when mothers hush babies, and the cashier’s scanner beeps its rhythm. Amidst the noise, I find clarity. You make me see the world through a different lens—the man with two bags of onions, the teenager in black boots, the woman whose hands tell more stories than her face. It’s here, in the chaos, where I lose myself and, paradoxically, find everything.