ㅤ “bring a majesty... poem in a hand.. 89” Each analog dream i experience feels as though spirits are inscribing my existence: drifting infinitely beyond the grasp of metaphors, unable to articulate the extraordinary authenticity of those moments. A faint drizzle descends, dispelling the once-dominant aesthetic, swept away ostensibly happiness no longer lingers. Perhaps too melancholic or maybe not enough romantic. A writer remains a writer, destined to-be written someday...whenever life ceases to script its blithesure.