entry twenty two — scattered light, fractured grace: a quiet archive of light, loss, and what remains.
The moon is a small, stubborn wound in the dark, haloed and patient. Branches reach like remembered names, skeletal and exact against the hush.
The light slips through their fingers and leaves a trail of familiar ache. Not sharp, not new, just honest and unblinked.
I stand where the tree lives in my knowing, and for a breath the world narrows to that thin halo and the soft geometry of limbs. There is comfort in the way memory and sky overlap, how absence can be a kind of company.
Home again feels less like a place and more like the presence that arrives when light finds the places you thought were empty.
catacosmosis · 2026
catacosmosis 