Daniel sent us this one — he's been renting in Jerusalem for a decade and he's noticed something interesting. The law says one thing about what tenants can and can't do to an apartment, but in practice, a lot depends on whether you can have an actual human conversation with your landlord. He wants to know what kinds of renovations are worth considering as a renter, how to open that negotiation, and what supplies you'd want on hand just to fix the little defects you inherit when you move in. And honestly, this is one of those topics where the gap between the official rules and how people actually live is enormous.
It really is. And I think the framing here gets at something most rental advice completely misses — which is that a rental isn't just a legal contract, it's a relationship. The law sets the floor, but the ceiling is negotiated between two people who both have interests in the property. The tenant wants a livable home, the landlord wants the asset maintained or improved. Those interests overlap more than people assume.
Although "overlap" is doing a lot of work there. The landlord wants the asset maintained. The tenant wants to hang a shelf without losing their security deposit and possibly their will to live. Those are parallel tracks that sometimes meet by accident.
But let's start with what the law actually says, because knowing that baseline is what gives you confidence in the conversation. Under Israeli law — specifically the Rental and Borrowing Law of 1971 — tenants are generally prohibited from making structural alterations without the landlord's consent. You can't knock down a wall, rewire the electrical system, or replace the plumbing.
All the fun things.
All the things that would get you sued, yes. But here's where it gets interesting. The law also says a tenant is entitled to "reasonable use" of the property. Israeli courts have interpreted that to include minor modifications consistent with normal living — hanging pictures, installing light fixtures, putting up shelves. The test is basically whether the alteration is reversible or causes actual damage.
Reversible being the operative word. If you can return the apartment to its original condition when you leave, you're generally in safe territory. If you've removed a load-bearing wall because you wanted an open-plan kitchen, you're in slightly different territory. The kind that involves lawyers.
There's a specific provision worth knowing. If a tenant makes an improvement that genuinely increases the property's value, and the landlord consented, the tenant may be entitled to compensation at the end of the lease. In modern Israeli jurisprudence it's treated as a principle of unjust enrichment — the landlord can't just pocket the value of improvements you paid for, at least in theory.
I love the phrase "in theory." It's the legal equivalent of "your mileage may vary" combined with "good luck with that.
That's exactly why the prompt's framing is so practical. Yes, the law says things. But what actually happens when you want to paint a wall or install a ceiling fan depends enormously on the conversation you have with the person who owns the place. So let's talk about how to have that conversation well.
Before we get to the conversation, let's map out what we're actually talking about doing. Because "renovations" covers everything from swapping a lightbulb to gutting the bathroom. Where's the line between "touch-up" and "renovation" in a rental context?
I'd put it in three tiers. Tier one is cosmetic and fully reversible — painting walls, filling holes, changing cabinet hardware, replacing a showerhead, swapping light fixtures. These are things you can undo in an afternoon, and they typically don't require permission, though giving the landlord a heads-up is smart.
Tier one is basically "I'm making this place not depressing." The landlord should send you a thank-you note.
Tier two is semi-permanent improvements that add real functionality but don't alter the structure — installing air conditioning where there was none, adding built-in shelving, upgrading the kitchen faucet, putting in a water filtration system, mounting a TV bracket properly, adding blackout blinds. These require permission because they involve drilling, electrical work, or plumbing modifications.
They're also the things that actually make a rental feel like a home rather than a temporary holding cell. This is where the value proposition for the landlord becomes part of the conversation.
Tier three is structural — moving walls, re-tiling, replacing windows, upgrading the electrical panel. These are almost never worth doing as a tenant unless you have an exceptionally long lease and a landlord who's essentially treating you as a partner in improving the property. And even then, get everything in writing. Get it in writing and then get the writing notarized.
Let's focus on tier one and tier two, because those are what actual renters in Jerusalem are dealing with. You walk into an apartment and the walls are the color of old bandages, the light fixtures look like they were chosen by someone who actively hated light, and there are mysterious holes from the previous tenant's failed shelf-hanging experiments. What do you do first?
You document everything before you touch anything. Take photos of every wall, every fixture, every crack, every hole. Send them to the landlord in an email or WhatsApp message so there's a timestamped record. Say something like, "Just documenting the current condition so we're both on the same page." That protects you when you move out and the landlord claims the holes were yours.
That's such a simple step and almost nobody does it. They just move in, start fixing things, and then three years later they're in arbitration trying to prove the bathroom tile was already cracked.
Every tenancy dispute I've ever heard about comes down to documentation. If you have photos from day one, you've already won most arguments before they start. Now, once you've documented, the prompt asks about what to stock up on for touch-ups. Let's build a list.
I'm ready. I have my imaginary shopping cart open at the imaginary hardware store.
First, spackling compound — in Hebrew "shepachtel" or just "spackle." Get a small tub, not the tube — cheaper and easier for multiple holes. Second, a putty knife, flexible, about two inches wide. Third, sandpaper — 120 grit for smoothing spackle, 220 for rougher surfaces. Fourth, a sample-sized container of white paint, even if your walls aren't white, because ceilings and trim almost always are.
White paint is the universal solvent of rental touch-ups. It fixes baseboards, doorframes, window sills, and at least half of all wall scuffs if your walls are one of the fifty shades of off-white that Israeli apartments come in.
Israeli apartments have exactly three wall colors: cigarette beige, optimistic cream, and what I can only describe as "the landlord's cousin said he could do it cheaper.
All three are close enough to white that white paint blends in from more than three feet away. Continue your list.
Fifth, a tube of silicone caulk — white or transparent. Israeli bathrooms are caulked with what appears to be hope and prayer, and it fails constantly. Re-caulking around the sink or tub takes ten minutes and prevents water damage that'll cost you your security deposit. Sixth, a small roll of mesh drywall tape for patching larger holes. Seventh, a screwdriver set with interchangeable bits, because the previous tenant stripped every screw in the apartment.
The stripped screw is the calling card of the Jerusalem rental. Every apartment comes with at least three cabinet doors hanging by a single functional screw while the other one just spins in place like it's contemplating the void.
Eighth, wall anchors — the plastic kind, in a few sizes. Israeli walls are notorious for being impossible to drill into reliably. You'll hit a spot that feels solid, drill in, and discover it's basically compressed sand behind a thin veneer of plaster. Good anchors are the difference between a shelf that holds books and a shelf that holds regret.
Shelf that holds regret sounds like an album title. Or a description of my twenties.
Ninth, a tube of wood filler for doorframes and baseboards. Tenth, a roll of painter's tape — not just for painting, but for marking drill points and protecting surfaces. And finally, a small level. Nothing announces "the tenant did this" like a shelf that's visibly tilted.
That's eleven items. A very manageable hardware store trip. You could walk out of there for maybe two hundred shekels and you'd have everything you need to make an apartment go from "I guess I live here now" to "I chose to live here.
That's really the psychology of it, isn't it? If you're going to be somewhere for two years, spending two hundred shekels and a Saturday afternoon to make it feel like yours — that's not a sunk cost. That's an investment in your own daily experience. You're buying two years of not being annoyed every time you look at the wall.
There's a weird mental accounting people do with rentals where they treat any money spent on the place as lost, but they'll spend far more on takeout coffee over the same period without thinking about it. The hole in the wall bothers you every single day. Fixing it costs less than two shakshukas at a café. Just fix the hole.
That brings us to the bigger question in the prompt — how do you actually open the conversation with a landlord about doing more than just filling holes? How do you talk about painting a room, or installing a ceiling fan, or building a closet?
I think step one is understanding the landlord's position. Most landlords in Israel aren't professional property managers. They're people who own one or two apartments, often because they inherited them or bought them as a retirement investment. They're nervous about tenants damaging their asset, but they're also not experts at maintaining property. A lot of them are just hoping nothing goes wrong.
That's crucial. The landlord's default posture is often fear — fear that you'll destroy the place, fear that you'll stop paying rent, fear that you'll be a nightmare. If you approach them with a proposal that reduces their anxiety rather than increases it, the conversation goes very differently.
What does that proposal look like?
I think there's a formula. First, frame it as a question, not a demand. "I was thinking about something and wanted to run it by you" rather than "I'm going to paint the living room." Second, be specific — not "make some improvements" but "paint the living room walls a neutral light gray, using the same brand of paint that's already on the walls, and I'll do the work myself.
Specificity is reassuring. It signals that you've thought this through and you're not going to surprise them with a glitter accent wall.
Third, explain why it benefits them. This is the part most tenants skip. "The walls have some scuffs and marks from previous tenants, so this will freshen up the apartment. When I eventually move out, the apartment will be in better condition than when I moved in, at no cost to you." You're not asking for a favor — you're offering a free upgrade to their property.
That framing is honest. If you do a decent job painting, the apartment is objectively better afterward. The landlord gets a freshened unit without paying for labor or materials. It's a win-win.
Fourth, offer to send photos when the work is done. This gives them visibility without requiring them to come inspect. Fifth, if it's something more involved than painting — say, installing a ceiling fan — offer to use a licensed electrician rather than doing it yourself. That addresses their liability concern.
The magic words are "licensed electrician." Israeli landlords have a deep, almost spiritual fear of tenant electrical work causing a fire. Mention a licensed professional and you can see the tension leave their shoulders.
Sixth, if there's any doubt, offer to put the agreement in writing. A simple WhatsApp message that says "just to confirm our conversation, you're okay with me painting the living room and hallway in a neutral color, and I'll send photos when it's done" creates a record that protects both of you.
That WhatsApp message is doing double duty. It's confirming permission and it's also documenting the pre-existing condition, because the landlord's "yes, go ahead" implicitly acknowledges that the apartment needed painting in the first place.
Now, there's a category of improvements where the conversation should be even more direct — things that materially increase the apartment's rental value. Installing air conditioning where there was none. Adding a dishwasher connection. Putting in proper blackout blinds in a bedroom that faces east.
East-facing bedrooms in Jerusalem are a particular circle of summer suffering. The sun comes up and your bedroom becomes a solar oven by six thirty in the morning. Blackout blinds aren't a luxury, they're a survival mechanism.
For these higher-value improvements, I'd suggest a slightly different approach. You might propose splitting the cost. "The apartment doesn't have air conditioning in the second bedroom. A unit would cost about two thousand shekels installed. Would you consider splitting that? You get a permanent improvement to the property, and I get a comfortable bedroom for the duration of my lease.
Has that actually worked for people you know?
I've seen it work multiple times, especially with landlords planning to re-rent the apartment after the current tenant leaves. They know an air-conditioned bedroom commands higher rent. If you can show them the math — "this two thousand shekel investment will let you charge an extra two hundred shekels a month, so it pays for itself in less than a year" — many of them will say yes.
Even if they say no to splitting the cost, they might still give you permission to do it at your own expense. At which point you have to make the calculus the prompt describes. If you're going to be there three years, paying for the AC yourself might still be worth it for the quality of life improvement.
The rule of thumb I'd suggest: for anything under five hundred shekels that makes your daily life better, just do it. Paint, hardware, showerhead, light fixtures. For anything between five hundred and two thousand shekels, have the conversation and see if they'll contribute. For anything over two thousand, think hard about how long you're staying and whether you can take it with you when you leave.
Take it with you — that's an underrated option. If you install a nice light fixture, keep the original one in a closet and swap it back when you move out. You get to keep your fixture, the landlord gets back the apartment in its original condition, nobody's upset.
That's the reversibility principle in action. And it's worth being explicit about this with the landlord. "I'd like to install my own light fixtures — I'll keep the originals and reinstall them when I leave." That sentence alone has probably saved more security deposits than any law on the books.
Let's talk about the things that seem small but make an outsized difference. The prompt mentions walking into a typical Jerusalem rental where things are "just a little bit maybe not as you might want them." What are the highest-impact, lowest-effort fixes?
Number one, without question, is lighting. Most Israeli rentals have the absolute minimum — a single bare bulb in the center of each room, sometimes with a sad plastic cover that diffuses the light into a kind of institutional gloom. Swapping those for actual light fixtures, or even just adding floor and table lamps, transforms a space. You go from "interrogation room" to "living room" for the price of a lamp.
The sad plastic cover. It's the ceiling tit of Israeli architecture. Everyone has one, nobody chose it, and it provides the lighting equivalent of a sigh.
Number two is the showerhead. The default Israeli showerhead is a calcified trickle machine that sprays water in unpredictable directions. Replacing it with something decent costs maybe a hundred and fifty shekels and takes five minutes. You keep the old one under the sink, swap it back when you leave. Every single morning of your tenancy is better.
People underestimate the showerhead because they've never experienced a good one. It's like going through life thinking all coffee tastes like instant, and then someone hands you an espresso. You didn't know what you were missing, but now you can't go back.
Number three is cabinet hardware. The knobs and handles in Israeli rental kitchens are universally terrible — cheap, loose, sometimes mismatched. Replacing them with something solid costs maybe twenty shekels per handle and takes a screwdriver and ten minutes. It's the kind of thing you touch twenty times a day, and every time you'll feel the difference.
It's also the kind of thing that, when you move out, the landlord will not notice has been upgraded. They'll just think the kitchen feels nicer somehow. It's a stealth improvement.
Number four is the toilet seat. Rental toilet seats are often stained, loose, or made of a plastic that somehow manages to be both flimsy and uncomfortable. A new one costs maybe eighty shekels and installs with two bolts. It's a dignity upgrade.
I'm not going to make a joke about dignity upgrades. I think that's exactly the right term and I'm going to leave it there.
Number five is door stops. Jerusalem apartments have a door-stop deficit. Doors swing open and hit walls, leaving dents and scuffs that you'll eventually be blamed for. Stick-on door stops cost practically nothing and prevent a whole category of damage.
That's a preemptive security deposit defense system disguised as a home improvement.
Number six is the kitchen faucet. If yours is the standard Israeli rental faucet — stiff, leaky, possibly installed during the British Mandate — replacing it with a modern one with a pull-down sprayer changes your entire relationship with your kitchen. You'll need permission since it involves plumbing, but it's a one-hour job for a plumber and makes a dramatic difference.
The British Mandate faucet. I know exactly the one you mean. It has two separate taps for hot and cold so you either scald yourself or freeze, and there's no middle ground. It's the faucet equivalent of a binary choice between suffering.
That brings me to a broader point about the Jerusalem rental market specifically. A lot of these apartments are in buildings that are forty, fifty, sixty years old. The infrastructure is dated, the fixtures are original, and nobody has ever done a comprehensive refresh. But that also means the baseline is so low that even modest improvements feel transformative.
The bar is on the floor. You can step over it with a trip to the hardware store and one focused afternoon.
Which is both depressing and liberating. Depressing because it reflects how under-maintained a lot of rental stock is. Liberating because you, as a tenant with minimal skills and a modest budget, can make the place dramatically better than what the landlord was providing.
Let's talk about the elephant in the room, which is the security deposit. The prompt mentions that tenants live in "permanent fear" of losing their deposit over anything from a hole in the wall to more substantial alterations. Is that fear proportionate to the actual risk?
Under Israeli law, landlords can only deduct from the security deposit for damage beyond normal wear and tear. Normal wear and tear — faded paint, minor scuffs, small nail holes from hanging pictures — is not grounds for deduction. Damage — large holes, broken fixtures, stains that require refinishing — is.
"normal wear and tear" is doing a lot of interpretive work there.
The courts have generally defined it as deterioration from ordinary use over time. Faded curtains from sun exposure, normal. Curtains shredded by a cat, not normal. Small nail holes from hanging pictures, normal. A fist-sized hole from an argument with a door, not normal. The key distinction is whether the tenant used the property reasonably or was negligent.
The fear is often outsized relative to the legal reality, but it persists because the landlord holds the deposit and the burden of proof is effectively on the tenant to get it back. Even if the law is on your side, the practical process of disputing a deduction is exhausting.
This is why the documentation step we talked about is so important. If you have photos from move-in day showing the pre-existing holes, the landlord can't later claim you caused them. And if you've had written communication about any alterations you made, they can't claim those were unauthorized. The fear diminishes when you've built a paper trail.
There's also the relationship factor. A landlord who likes you, who's received photos of the nice paint job you did, is far less likely to nickel-and-dime you on the deposit than a landlord who's never heard from you except when the rent was late.
This is why the prompt's emphasis on "a constructive and pleasant relationship" is not just soft advice — it's practical legal strategy. The best way to win a deposit dispute is to never have one. And the best way to never have one is to be the tenant the landlord is sad to see leave.
The tenant who left the apartment better than they found it, who communicated clearly, who didn't cause problems — that tenant gets their full deposit back and a reference letter for the next landlord. The tenant who was a ghost for two years and then demanded their deposit back within twenty-four hours of moving out — that tenant gets a different experience.
Let me add one more thing about the legal framework. Under Israeli law, if a landlord consents to improvements, they generally can't later deduct from the deposit for those improvements unless they were done poorly and caused damage. Consent is a shield. If they said "yes, you can paint," they can't later say "the paint color reduced the apartment's value" and dock your deposit.
Getting that WhatsApp confirmation isn't just polite — it's insurance.
It's one of the most valuable things you can have in a tenancy dispute. Every conversation about alterations should end with a written confirmation, even if it's just a one-line message.
Let's pivot to something the prompt gestures at but doesn't fully explore — the case where you're in a long-term stable tenancy and the calculus changes. If you know you're going to be somewhere for five years, what opens up that wouldn't make sense for a two-year lease?
Five years changes the math on almost everything. At that point, you're not a temporary occupant — you're functionally the steward of the property. Improvements that might seem indulgent for a short stay become reasonable investments in your quality of life.
Give me some examples.
Custom closet systems. Israeli apartments almost never come with adequate storage. A built-in closet system can cost a few thousand shekels, but over five years, that's a few shekels a day for the luxury of not living out of suitcases and piles.
The pile life. I've lived the pile life. It's not a good life.
Kitchen upgrades — not a full renovation, but replacing the countertop if it's damaged, adding a backsplash, upgrading the sink. These are things you interact with constantly. Over five years, the daily annoyance of a bad kitchen layout adds up to real misery.
Another one: window treatments. Proper blinds or curtains, especially the blackout kind. In a two-year rental you might tolerate the morning sun. In a five-year rental, you're signing up for over eighteen hundred sunrises. You want to be able to sleep through some of them.
Soundproofing is another. Israeli walls transmit sound with what seems like deliberate efficiency. Adding acoustic panels, sealing gaps around doors, putting down rugs — these are modest investments that make a huge difference in daily peace. And they're all removable.
The prompt also mentions the "inherited defects" — the little problems that come with a new rental. Let's talk about the triage process. You walk in on day one, you've got your documentation photos taken, now you're looking at a list of things that are wrong. How do you prioritize?
I'd group them into three categories. Category A: things that will cause further damage if not fixed. A leaky faucet, a running toilet, a gap in the shower seal that's letting water into the wall. These need to be addressed immediately, and they're the landlord's responsibility. Report them in writing on day one.
"Report them in writing" should be embroidered on a pillow somewhere. It's the motto of successful renting.
Category B: things that affect daily function. A door that doesn't close properly, a window that won't open, a light switch that controls nothing. These are also the landlord's responsibility, but less urgent than Category A. Report them in the first week.
Category C: cosmetic issues that bug you but don't affect function. The scuffed walls, the ugly light fixtures, the cabinet handles we talked about. These are your domain. Fix them yourself, at your own pace, and feel good about it.
The distinction matters because if you report Category C items to the landlord as if they're problems, you come across as high-maintenance and it poisons the relationship for when you actually need something. Save your requests for the things that are their responsibility.
There's an art to being a low-maintenance tenant who still gets things fixed. It's about picking your battles and handling the small stuff yourself. The landlord starts to see you as competent and reasonable, which means when you do ask for something, they're more likely to say yes.
That loops back to the renovation conversation. A tenant who's proven themselves competent and reasonable — who fixed the small stuff, who paid rent on time, who communicated clearly — is a tenant the landlord trusts to paint a room or install a fixture. Trust is earned in small increments, and it pays off when you want to do something bigger.
Let's talk about one more specific scenario that comes up a lot in Jerusalem. You want to put up shelves or wall-mounted storage, but the walls are — let's say uncooperative. What's the actual process for doing that without destroying the wall and your deposit?
Jerusalem walls are a geological adventure. Depending on the building's age, you might be drilling into limestone block, into plaster over hollow brick, into concrete, or into something the builder apparently improvised on site. First step: figure out what you're dealing with. Tap the wall — a hollow sound means plaster over void, a solid thud means stone or concrete.
The hollow sound is the sound of disappointment.
For hollow walls, you need toggle bolts or molly bolts — anchors that expand behind the plaster and distribute weight across a wider area. For solid walls, you need plastic expansion anchors and a masonry drill bit. And for the love of everything, use a level. A crooked shelf in a rental is a permanent monument to your impatience.
Also, drill a small test hole first. Nothing worse than drilling a full-size hole and discovering you've hit a spot where the plaster just crumbles. A small pilot hole tells you what you're working with and costs you almost nothing to fill if it's wrong.
When you eventually move out, filling those holes properly is the difference between getting your deposit back and not. Don't just smear spackle over the hole — push it in so it fills the cavity, let it dry completely, sand it smooth, and then paint. A properly filled and painted hole is invisible. A rushed job is obvious from across the room.
The difference between invisible and obvious is about fifteen minutes of patience. Most deposit deductions for wall damage are really deductions for impatience.
Let me add one thing about the hardware store trip the prompt asks about. Beyond the touch-up supplies we listed, there are a few things worth having in your rental toolkit just for ongoing maintenance. A plunger — obvious but essential. A drain snake for shower clogs, which are inevitable. Plumber's tape for sealing threaded pipe connections. A utility knife. A set of Allen wrenches for assembling furniture and tightening loose handles.
Allen wrenches — the keys to the kingdom of flat-pack furniture. You'll use them more than you expect.
A small tube of lithium grease for squeaky hinges. A roll of double-sided mounting tape for things you don't want to drill for. A voltage tester so you don't electrocute yourself when swapping light fixtures. And a headlamp, because you'll inevitably be doing something under the sink or behind the washing machine and you'll need both hands.
The headlamp is the unsung hero of home maintenance. It turns every two-handed job from a frustrating juggle into something actually doable. Plus you look like a cave explorer, which is its own reward.
I want to address one more aspect of the prompt — the idea that there's a tension between the law and the relationship. The prompt says you see it "borne out in the rental market that there is what the law says, and if you can have a constructive and pleasant relationship with your landlord, you can have either a written or a verbal understanding." I think that's exactly right, and I think it's worth being explicit about why.
The law is adversarial by design. It's a set of rules for resolving disputes when the relationship has already broken down. If you're relying on the law, you've already lost something — time, money, peace of mind. The relationship is cooperative. It's about building enough trust that you never need to invoke the law at all.
That's a very Jewish way of looking at it, actually. The law is important, the law is binding, but the ideal is to live in such a way that you never need a judge to resolve your disputes. The relationship should make the law unnecessary, not the other way around.
That's what the prompt is really getting at. How do you operate in the space where the law sets boundaries but the relationship creates possibilities? The answer is communication, documentation, and a clear value proposition. "Here's what I'd like to do, here's why it benefits you, here's how I'll ensure it's done properly, and here's the written record of our agreement.
It sounds almost simple when you put it that way.
It's simple in principle and complicated in execution, like most things worth doing. The execution requires social skills, patience, and a willingness to invest effort in a property you don't own. But the payoff — a home that actually feels like yours, a landlord who trusts you, a deposit that comes back in full — is substantial.
If the landlord says no? You ask to paint and they refuse? You want to install a ceiling fan and they're not comfortable with it?
Then you respect the no and look for alternatives that don't require permission. Can't paint the walls? Use large art, tapestries, or temporary wallpaper that peels off. Can't install a ceiling fan? Get a high-quality floor fan or a portable AC unit. Can't drill holes for shelves? Use freestanding shelving units. There's almost always a non-permanent workaround.
The renter's creativity is born of constraint. You can't change the walls, so you change what hangs on them. You can't change the floors, so you change what covers them. You can't change the light fixtures, so you change the bulbs and add lamps. You build a home out of the things that are yours to control.
That's the final point I'd make. The prompt asks about renovations, but the deeper question is about how you make a rental into a home. Renovations are one path to that, but they're not the only path. The furniture you choose, the art you hang, the rugs you lay down, the way you arrange the space — these are all within your control, and collectively they matter more than whether the walls are the exact shade you'd prefer.
The landlord owns the shell. You own the life that happens inside it. Most of what makes a place feel like home has nothing to do with the walls.
Now: Hilbert's daily fun fact.
Hilbert: In the early fifteen hundreds, traders crossing the salt flats of Turkmenistan used the blinding white surface as a natural mirror to measure the distance to distant caravans — by timing how long it took a reflected signal, usually a flash from a polished shield, to return. Modern laser rangefinders achieve the same measurement with an accuracy of plus or minus one millimeter, meaning five centuries of technological progress improved on a salt flat by roughly the width of a fingernail.
The salt flat was already doing millimeter-adjacent work. Good for the salt flat.
I have so many questions about the polished shield method. None of which I'm going to ask.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Thanks to our producer Hilbert Flumingtop. You can find every episode at myweirdprompts.com or wherever you get your podcasts. If you enjoyed this one, leave us a review — it helps other people find the show.
We'll be back next week. Don't let your landlord keep your deposit.
