Transylvanian Tides

Earpods in, three fingers of the good whisky, rocking slow by the soba while the snow keeps falling on the […]

Earpods in, two fingers of my favourite sipping whisky in a gentle burn, rocking slowly in the old wooden chair

I never set out to be a writer or a photographer. I set out to live a good life close

Where the Days Fade Away and the Heart Finally Drops Anchor The little battered kitchen radio (the one with the

A Bonus Winter Dispatch from Transilvania’s Soil The road unrolls tonight like a frozen scroll under truck headlights that aren’t

A Pirate’s Winter, a Garlic’s Root, and the Quiet Season of Becoming Sitting out under the Milky Way,earpods in, volume

Sometimes the best days start in a bed that still smells like sleep and little-girl dreams, and end with the