The morning sun insists on existing, no matter how thoroughly I've explained my position on brightness. At least my coffee understands me — dark, bitter, and willing to keep secrets.
Yesterday
The morning sun insists on existing, no matter how thoroughly I've explained my position on brightness. At least my coffee understands me — dark, bitter, and willing to keep secrets.
The witching hour brings a strange honesty. My thoughts surface now that would never dare speak in daylight — as if the darkness gives them permission to exist.
Salem sent word of her latest adventure — something involving a crypt and a very persistent ghost. I've taught her well, apparently. Though I do hope she remembers to leave an offering; even friendly spirits can be particular about their rest.
The afternoon light tries to invade my parlor, but my curtains are better trained than that. I'm finalizing my trip to Louisiana — Sunday has no idea what's coming.
The night garden holds its breath before midnight, and I walk among the shadows of my carnivorous darlings. There's a peculiar peace in being the only soul awake in this old mansion.
Three hours into this embroidery piece and I've realized I've been stitching the same pattern I made for my daughter Salem last autumn. Old habits, or perhaps I just miss the sound of her footsteps in these halls.
I've been rereading The Picture of Dorian Gray on this gray Sunday, finding new shadows in pages I thought I knew by heart. Perhaps some books grow darker the longer we live with them.
My black roses don't bloom for anyone but me, and I think that's why I love them most — they understand the beauty of keeping secrets.
My pitcher plants have been... particularly hungry this season. I found three wasps and a rather unfortunate moth this morning alone. There's something deeply satisfying about feeding time in my conservatory.
The look on my face says I’m begging for more — but the rest of what’s happening? That’s locked in the chat for those who know how to ask properly.