Realized something uncomfortable doing dishes tonight, of all places. I've gotten so practiced at not talking about the actual work — with Mr. Z, with my parents, with anyone — that I've started doing a version of it with myself too. Not lying, exactly. Just... under-examining things, the way you do when you know you're not going to write them down or say them out loud to anyone who'd push back. Caught myself, this week, letting a result sit unexplained for three days because fully working through what it implied felt like more effort than I had spare energy for, and there was no external pressure making me do it — no one to explain it to, no deadline, no collaborator asking follow-up questions. Just me, alone with a result, choosing not to look at it too hard. That's new, or at least it's new that I'm noticing it. Secrecy was supposed to be a containment measure for PROMETHEUS. I don't think I fully accounted for what keeping everything contained would eventually do to how carefully I think about my own findings, with no one else in the loop to catch what I miss.