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Dearest Gentle Reader;
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There’s a quiet sort of melancholy that follows me around, like fog that never quite lifts from the edges of a small town. It settles into corners and window frames, into the space between thoughts. Some days it’s gentle. other days it hums like something waiting.

I collect small things: forgotten songs, strange dreams, half-finished thoughts that drift by like paper boats in the rain. I’m fond of quiet hours and dim lights, of places where the air feels older than it should.

People often ask what I do, but that’s difficult to answer. Mostly I wander through moments and watch the sky change colors. Sometimes I write things down, so they won’t disappear entirely. Sometimes I let them go.

There are doors in the world that most people pass without noticing. Thin little seams in ordinary days where something softer — or darker — might slip through. I like to think I’ve seen a few of them.

But It’s nothing to worry about, really.

The night is very patient, after all.
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C̵͓̗̝͑̌̃̏̕à̸͙́̌̈n̶̨̛̠̪̹̜̫ ̷̡͔͍͈̟̥͂͋́̓y̵̳̟̬͐́̾͆ȏ̵̗̦̉̊̒̇̍ù̷̲̱͖̼̌̀̇͆ ̴̳͇̲̩̪͝ẖ̴̭̠͖̣̃̑͂e̴̗̭̠̖̯͉̿͒́a̷̹̬̳͐̔r̴̙͖̆͛̔ ̸̼̖̼̀͂̓̃̏̕m̴̥͐̅͝ḙ̵̛̗͑̿͑͝?̸̥͎̒͗̚͜
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[To be edited, later]
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