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.

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.

Obsidian lidar, papel picado kites, and a rebozo-antenna. In Xochimilco, Tlacuilo helps a canal fix an ancient spelling mistake: it learns to return.

Bell-loud cups, too-small umbrellas, and puddles full of neon—Montrose, rinsed and honest.
Slug: montrose-in-the-rain

Power tianguis, solar jacarandas, and a cinnamon-voiced block AI. Santa Tere learns to switch on the light where hands begin.

Metal shutter, warm lights, a saved first espresso, and names spoken like passwords. Morning finds its rhythm in a neighborhood café.

A telescope, two rules, one focused kiss. A matchbox note dares you to name a star that doesn’t exist—Providencia under electric starlight.

A spine-less book, margins that write themselves, and a yellow bag that already knows her shadow. Quiet magic in GDL.

No cape, black sweater, amber bottles. Pomegranate glass and a city that lends him the right shadow to sleep.

A shadow library-market, Comadre Segunda, and a recipe to cool August: light arranged as rest.

The house borrows other voices until you lend it yours. Then the bell stops begging and begins to invite.

A sideways cold front, limes remembering themselves, and windows finally cracked open—Houston offers a brief coupon for mercy.

Stars teaching the clock its manners. A returned diminutive. The room isn’t empty—it shelters versions of you not yet whole.

Rush hour. A hummingbird-serpent with no label stitches glyphs over a crowded car, opening routes for kindness on Line 3.