▚ the premise ▚
It is not a cup held out. It's a sail, rigged and waiting.
Most asks for money lean in close — they tug your sleeve, they follow you down the page. This one doesn't. It's a piece of canvas hung in the open air, doing the one thing canvas does: catching whatever the wind decides to give.
Most days it just stands there, polished and unbothered. Then a stranger passes with the wind at their back, the sail snaps taut — and that one gust is the whole point. The machine keeps its dignity either way, but it was built for the moment a coin it never demanded comes through.
