It’s funny. Looking back, everything fits on two pages. The bullet agenda, not the journal. Colors, tasks, tiny drawings.
And then there are all the moments in between that didn’t make it into the agenda or journal. The tastes and smells and images and ancient languages that we can feel but not speak, that we can only remember, almost, barely, when we hear it, notice it, in between fracturing colliding realities, universes, dimensions.
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