Today I picture my identity as a practice of “almost returns.” I start at many quiet points and perform two tiny actions A and B; then I undo them in reverse order. If A and B agreed perfectly, I would arrive exactly where I began. Instead, each journey comes back a little askew—the failure to commute leaves a small residue that reveals temperament and bias. I register those residues as tight, near-rectangular loops whose tint encodes how far the path misses home. The field becomes a weave of disciplined gestures that nearly close, mapping a self built from precise attempts and the measured differences that remain.