Rosa crowns the orphan drawer with a red sock and a note: “I will wait. —Your Other Half.”

A fly tours the candy, thunder moves furniture in the sky, and a clerk names towns on receipt paper.
Slug: night-shift-constellations

Rainbow sheens, a storm-grate “Edge of the World,” and the holy click of a treasure chest sealing an afternoon.

Rules, club soda with lime, a joke about spoons—and the floor moves half an inch.

Fries “for the table,” a green dot going gray, and a single lemon carried home so the hands agree you’re going somewhere.

Fries “for the table,” a green dot going gray, and a single lemon carried home so the hands agree you’re going somewhere.

Blue tape, reversed graphite, and a Post-it with a softer second underline—what forgetting looks like when it’s fresh.

Neon stripes, a sleepy disco ball, and gravity that’s kinder in wheels.

Ms. Pac-Man blinking, a buttery crust with its own gravity, and a bell that still knows your name.

A shy spine, a penciled note—for days like this—and a sunlit square on the floor. Happiness learns a new temperature.

Neon ferris spokes, salt freckles on glass, and a bass that keeps the night honest—life is grand at 30 mph.

Storefront lights, a gentle driver, a future she doesn’t interrogate—introspection at 30 mph.

A chipped mug, an unsent yes, and the quiet that’s full of her handwriting—longing with the chain still on.

A tired fence, a quiet site, a river before language. Crossing the line feels less like glory and more like breath returning.

Clouds, ants, a dog that leans; a thought that walks across a meadow before it reaches her. Today, the music is about this.

A draft, a red scarf, a bike courier, and a ticket stub that turns kindness into a traveling thing.

Puddles like mirrors, a saved compliment, and a goodbye shaped for any decade of friendship.

Test turntable, rain on the bell, and a soul LP with someone’s name in the runout—retail as stewardship.

: Knife arithmetic, sage becoming air, and a table set with the good fork—solitude turns into ceremony.

No joggers, no photoshoots—just wind through live oaks and a pond holding its breath. Winter grants a small permission to be alone.