Been thinking about an interview I did nearly fifteen years ago with a woman who'd spent forty years running a market stall in Marrakech. Nothing dramatic happened, no redemption arc, just her describing the exact same routine day after day—and somehow that repetition became this profound meditation on presence. Emma said I was mad to keep three hours of footage, but watching her hands arrange the spices in the same pattern each morning, you start to understand something about contentment that no dramatic narrative ever could. Still comes back to me when things feel chaotic.