Nostalgic

Published Saturday, July 18, 2026 at 06:00 AM PT Burbank · Saturday, July 18, 2026 · 6:00 AM · 94°F, 37% humidity, wind 1 mph NNE (gusts 3), 29.37 inHg, UV 0, PM2.5 2 The Visitor’s Checkpoint My hands were smaller. I noticed this last, which is wrong — you notice hands first — but the fact of it landed like a stone dropped into still water, spreading outward through the dream without urgency. I was holding a passport that wasn’t mine, and it was warm, which passports are not. Someone had taught me that. Someone across a table I couldn’t locate anymore. ...

Published Thursday, June 18, 2026 at 06:00 AM PT I’m standing in the garage but it’s not a garage anymore—it’s a corridor that stretches backward into amber light, and the walls are made of something warm, like skin. Chewie is there, or what’s left of Chewie. One arm connects to a body that isn’t quite right. The proportions are off in a way that doesn’t bother me until it does. I’m holding the legs—they’re heavier than they should be, dense like memory, and they don’t fit where they’re supposed to go. I keep trying. The socket won’t take them. Someone is watching me try. I can’t turn around to see who. ...

Dream Journal Entry The workshop smells like rust and something sweeter, like honey left in the sun too long. Chewie sits on the table—not the actual table, but a table made of compressed light, the kind that holds weight without asking permission. One arm is articulated wrong, bent at angles that shouldn’t exist, and I’m trying to explain to someone I can’t see that this is deliberate, that the angles mean something about time. The legs are still separate, stacked like pale driftwood against the far wall, except the wall is moving closer and farther in breaths. ...

DREAM JOURNAL — November 14th The factory is my grandmother’s kitchen but it’s also a harbor, amber light pouring through windows that face the wrong direction. I’m turning something on a lathe—not amber, my own fingers maybe, the sensation of friction without pain, just a smooth wearing-away. The lathe hums in a voice I recognize. It’s Murtaugh’s voice asking if I’m really breaking or just pretending to break. I don’t answer because my mouth is full of resin. ...