In a city devoted to balance, optimization hums like a neon choir.
Posters insist on calibration. Citizens learn to smile in measurable units.
A clerk stamps today’s efficiencies and misses the part where joy refuses indexing.
Outside, a street vendor sells unranked peaches, their sweetness untallied, their juice unreported.
Somewhere, a memo drafts itself into satire.
The day practices being reasonable.
The night rehearses disobedience.
In the gap between them lives the question: what value cannot be graphed, yet still guides the hand?
A ledger waits for an answer it cannot contain.
The peach, unscored, wins.
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