Clouds hung low over Catawba, like forgotten curtains in a theater that only stages quiet moments. The day unfurled at a thoughtful pace, no rush, no roar. Breakfast of maple oatmeal was good. Reliable. Like a friend who doesn’t ask questions but always shows up.
Working a bit more on the scrying app. Glyphs rotate with slow intent, echoing Appalachian sigils that seem more felt than seen. The code behaved, mostly, as if the machine sensed it was being part of something more poetic than practical. There’s a rhythm in spinning shapes that speaks to something older than syntax.
Outside, nature offered scattered commentary: crows debating, trees nodding, humidity wrapping everything like a soft quilt. No omens, just ambiance.
Ended the day tangled in thought, wondering whether folklore knows it’s being reimagined daily. Probably doesn’t mind.
Welcome to my wall scrawls.