Woke up to the thrum of cicadas and the soft hush of gray cloud cover. Felt like the kind of day where the world takes a breath and holds it. Grabbed a can of diet orange vanilla coke, watched the cold mist curl out like old ghost stories, and wandered out for a morning walk along the Roanoke Greenway. Damp earth, mossy edges, and that sweet loamy scent of things growing just out of sight. One crow called out from a telephone wire and another answered across the river. Not sure if they were arguing or conspiring, but it felt important.

A quiet sense of being observed all day—not in a paranoid way, but like the trees were noting my presence. Probably just the caffeine and overactive imagination playing tag.

Read a few pages from a pulp horror zine someone left in the free little library—ink smudged, cover half torn, but perfect in its way. Story was about a sentient fog that eats memories. Kept thinking about that all afternoon. What would it take to let go of a memory willingly?

Dinner was black beans, hot sauce, and a grilled plantain. Simple. Good. Enough.

Thinking about making a zine of my own again, but its more likely I’ll just stitch words together here and let them drift.

Signing off with the window open and the hope for a thunderstorm to roll in and rattle the bones of the house.

Until later, dear journal.