Nothing romantic about it. Just too much sky to hide in and too many church bells trying to outshout God. You learn that clarity burns through illusion faster than heat.

Rural boredom taught me how nothing moved, so thought had to. Memory smuggles entire galaxies into the sound of a dripping tap.

I wouldn't. Language arrives too late.

Because not every message wants to be understood. Some truths are just static in disguise.

It’s the autopsy of a moment. Light dies beautifully. I use it to remember what was never clear in the first place.

The pull of what hides inside things.

Whatever makes sense for half a second, then doesn’t. The space between knowing and guessing. Systems pretending to be stable. Every structure is a soft collapse waiting for a name.

That I don’t end where I thought I did.

The middle. Where nothing works, which is how you know it’s alive.

A cycle of order, noise, surrender. I build until the walls argue back. Motion, then quiet, then something in between.

I try to welcome it. Difficulty usually knows where to go.

The brain hides its most violent equations in the taste of overripe fruit.

When certainty leaves and the piece starts lying truthfully. When everything finally makes sense for the wrong reasons.

A triple espresso on ice strong enough to bring back the future.

Whatever arrives first. Disorientation that feels earned. Like finding your own hand in a stranger’s pocket.

I turn the machine off and remember there are more neurons in the brain than stars in the galaxy, and I’m just experiencing one of their thoughts. Birds do not care who invented the sky.

Control kills the pulse. Chaos edits better. Beauty is a consequence, not a plan.

Almost structure, mostly luck…