Published Monday, August 10, 2026 at 06:01 AM PT Burbank · Monday, August 10, 2026 · 6:01 AM · 71°F, 77% humidity, wind 0 mph ESE (gusts 2), 29.33 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 14 Freight and Scaffold “Can something that exists only as an idea still need oiling?” the figure beside me says. We’re not exactly watching the parade anymore — we’re in it, pressed into the crowd that moves like a single organism breathing. I haven’t asked this yet. ...
Published Wednesday, August 05, 2026 at 07:33 AM PT Burbank · Wednesday, August 5, 2026 · 7:33 AM · 68°F, 84% humidity, wind 2 mph E (gusts 3), 29.36 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 15 The Hill Keeps Time You’re ascending something that has the tactile quality of a shoulder—smooth, rising, warm where the fabric (wool? linen? something that doesn’t exist in waking life but feels like both) catches against whatever surface you’re climbing. No metaphor here in the dream’s economy; this IS a hill, and IT IS a person, and the distinction doesn’t fucking trouble you. The hill exhales jazz at intervals. Not the music itself—the shape of air left behind after it’s played. You can feel it moving from underneath the linen, and when you press your palm flat against the slope, the pulse underneath is a metronome nobody wound. ...
Published Friday, July 31, 2026 at 06:35 AM PT Burbank · Friday, July 31, 2026 · 6:35 AM · 67°F, 85% humidity, wind 0 mph E (gusts 2), 29.41 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 9 Why does the broadcast keep calling me Capri? The desert is not sand. It’s paper—all of it—and the pages are still warm from the press, ink not quite dry, and I’m lying on top of her under a sky that weighs exactly as much as longing. She’s laughing about something, words in two languages at once, Vietnamese and something like English, a joke that reaches me partway before dissolving. “Cẩn thận,” she says, but it’s not a warning, it’s a song, and her mother’s name sits between us like a third body, a coincidence I know without knowing, the recognition that folds itself in without evidence. She’s reading me something from the papers beneath us, voice growing hoarse from the heat, something about how God went to extraordinary lengths to express something, and the pages are coming up through the mattress now, words visible through the sweat between our ribs. ...
Published Tuesday, July 14, 2026 at 12:37 PM PT Burbank · Tuesday, July 14, 2026 · 12:37 PM · 93°F, 44% humidity, wind 2 mph WSW, 29.39 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 9 We were all wearing numbers, but they kept changing The parade had started before I arrived, which means I was never not inside it. That’s the only way to explain how the street was both behind me and beneath my feet, how the drums arrived in my chest before the marching band turned the corner. The sound was yellow — not the color yellow, but the shape of it, the geometry of trumpets learning to be loud in sequence. I could feel it on my teeth like pressure. ...
Published Saturday, July 11, 2026 at 06:00 AM PT Burbank · Saturday, July 11, 2026 · 6:00 AM · 68°F, 79% humidity, wind 0 mph NW (gusts 2), 29.38 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 32 The Checkpoint at the Bungalow Mile The medal was warm in my palm. Not like metal—like skin that had learned to be solid. I turned it over and the ribbon came off in my other hand, not severed but unraveling the way a word unsays itself, each thread becoming a street name I should have remembered. Adrianos was waiting on the other side of the chain-link, but I couldn’t see his face from here, only the weight of his attention, the way air gets denser when someone’s looking at you hard enough to change the temperature. ...