I write from places that don’t last. For the people who feel the weight of where they came from.
From land that gets sold, paved, renamed, and forgotten.
From stories that never made it into the record because no one thought they mattered.

This work lives between history and memory. Where records stop and living people begin.
Between what we were told and what we lived.
It’s slow by design. It pays attention. It stays with what most people are taught to ignore.

If you’re here, you probably recognize that feeling.
The sense that something essential is slipping away.
And that it’s worth remembering before it’s gone.