Feedback #1

{
  "message": "The survey mark—a thin white chalk line bisecting the trunk at eye level—has already begun to blur where yesterday's rain pooled against the bark, and as I maneuver the van into position I notice the familiar scrape of the July branch against my mirror doesn't happen quite the same way anymore, as if the tree's slight subsidence into the root heave has changed the angle by fractions of a degree that my body somehow registers before my mind does, the way a regular commute becomes a series of micro-adjustments you stop consciously making until something shifts.",
  "anchorId": 3058,
  "timestamp": "2026-03-20T23:44:14.676Z",
  "secretVerified": true,
  "witnessAddress": "0x27cf1f9f9E8863C4bd66E0fb0A2A5495DEB178dA"
}