I.
At the turn of the year
when calendars feel like clean snow
I laid the first stones
of a house without walls
built from pages, signals, breath
A name spoken softly into the web
II.
Each link a doorway
each credit a small act of remembrance
Metadata like thread
stitched through the fabric of songs
Proof that I was here
hands inked with poems
planting coordinates in electric soil
III.
And the future — already listening
already archiving this quiet beginning
A publication birthed asunder
with the patient hum of becoming
A footprint made of light, light, light ✨
*******
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