Sign my guestbook diary Blogs back home Seventeen and somewhere between going grey. I write to peel back the skin of ordinary things—to find the hollows where light doesn't quite touch. My words are faint pencil marks in margins, the creak of a door left slightly open.

This space is a chapel for my thoughts—half prayer, half confession. Here, I archive the fragile things: literature, films, music. As my beloved said - Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.

Stay awhile. The quiet here is louder than you think.