Twenty-six hardcover journals, because some things do not belong in your phone.
Each one holds 150 lined pages behind a matte-laminated cover, bound with a sewn casewrap spine so it lies flat wherever you open it: a lap, a desk, a cafe table at six in the morning. The pages are perforated, so anything meant for one reader can leave the book cleanly.
The cover carries original artwork. That matters more than it sounds like it should: you write in the book you want to pick up. Morning pages, the running argument with yourself, the plan you are not ready to say out loud yet. Stillness is not the absence of noise. It is having somewhere to put it.
