04AUG
There's a particular silence in hotel rooms that feels like it's waiting to be filled. I write to chase it away — or perhaps to keep it company. The pen moves, the city moves outside the window, and for a few minutes I am only this: the scratch of ink, the weight of a coat I haven't buttoned, the particular quality of late-afternoon light making everything look like a memory even as it happens.
Mood: Contemplative, luminous, quietly alive