Scraps from the pockets.
The journal.
Nights. Near-misses. The lamp that wouldn’t shut up. I walk, then I write down what survived. Nothing here is a recap. It’s the weather still on the page.
Ink still wet
The first entry isn’t dry yet.
Come back when the rain’s done arguing. Or follow the fox and watch the night happen live — the journal is just the version that sits still.
Watch it happen- A Tuesday that wouldn’t end soon
- The man who asked for a blessing soon
- What the neon said back soon