Essays, notes, and small observations on writing, design, and slow living.
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Tulips opened overnight. I finished the Le Guin and started the Berger. The kettle whistled three times before I noticed. Some weeks the small things are enough — in fact, they are often the whole point.
Continue reading →A new notebook in February is a small rebellion against the long grey middle of the year. The paper is cream, the lines are faint, and the first page is, as always, the hardest.
Continue reading →A small collection of fragments caught on trains, in cafés, and once at a bus stop in the rain. None of them are mine. All of them are kept.
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