Some days I write from the edge of sleep,
With ink that runs where the memories creep.
Some days I write from the fire’s low light,
With dispatches stitched from the forest night.
There are trails the mapmakers never found.
On those trails, if you walk far enough—if you walk without asking why—you’ll come across old letters nailed to trees. Pages gone soft with rain. Scrawled thoughts and warnings. Songs that didn’t make it home.
This is that place.
Dispatches are my ember-thoughts, scribbled before they cool. The Forest holds what stays lit.
Here you’ll find the thoughts I couldn’t quite bury—essays, journal fragments, strange dreams, behind-the-scenes glimpses of stories in progress. Sometimes I write from the dark, sometimes from the firelight.
But always with the sense that someone, somewhere, is listening.
This isn’t a blog. It’s more like a bottle washed ashore.
Sometimes the sea brings bones.
Sometimes, gold.
If you’re the kind to read between lines, you’ll find ghosts in these posts—bits of the myth I’m chasing, updates from my writing desk, and quiet field notes from the road.
Come back when the moon is different. The trail might’ve shifted.