Something is growing quietly.
Not a declaration, exactly—more like a revolution.
I’ve been writing, pouring wax, stitching pages, testing inks, burning edges (gently), and dreaming of a year that feels full again.
You’ll see the clues soon enough:
In the book-planners that don’t just mark time, but make meaning.
In the poems that hum between confession and incantation.
In the candles that remember someone’s touch.
In the notebooks that ask questions instead of giving answers.
In the tote that carries what can’t be carried.
In the poemprints that whisper what’s too much to say aloud.
It’s all connected—though the thread isn’t visible yet.
(That’s on purpose.)
2026 will have a manifesto.
You’ll feel it before you read it.
For now, consider this your first Easter egg:
Sometimes, the opposite of scarcity is simply attention.
