cinnamon triple espresso, incense smoke slow and thick in the quiet, black silk on the skin, and the ritual of reading in the afternoon.

a hauntingly beautiful, otherworldly existence.

𝔪𝔶𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔠. 𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔲𝔪𝔫.

autumn: dark mornings, black silk, espresso, dark chocolate, perfume, incense smoke.

lighting an incense and candles, adding cinnamon spice to my triple espresso, perfume already on pulse points, letting the quiet of my home bring me peace, and devoting my day to reading this book.

details.

and just like that, summer said farewell beneath the autumn rain.

a morning of rain, my velvety triple espresso, incense smoke, perfume on pulse points, and reading on my balcony—in love with the quiet of the woods.

i finally replaced my copy of the bell jar, and it’s beautiful.

too mortal for this eternal heart; too tired for this human existence.

black silk, black lace, black leather, black velvet.

an entire group of women (out celebrating a birthday) stopped our bachelorette party to tell me i look like a “pixie fairy goth” and i will never forget them.

the prologue to autumn; cold mornings ripen with plums and black ink.

the finale of summer; the end of august dissolves into pages and shadowed rooms.

when mary shelley said “beware; for i am fearless and therefore powerful” and “there is something at work in my soul, which i do not understand”

spectral, unmoored, elsewhere.

as sylvia plath once said “i am possessive about my alone time” and “i am alone in my room, between two worlds”

reading this gothic horror until i fall asleep, the silver curve of the moon just outside my window.

𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 ♱ 𝔩𝔲𝔠ƙ

sensuality, passion, grief. all of it, irrevocably felt.

my mornings have become sacred, in the ritual of writing.

mad, macabre and morbid

solitude beneath the bruised afternoon sun, thunderstorms at the edge of light—a time for hedonistic pleasures.

these summer late afternoons drenched in shadows, perfumed with incense smoke, and sweetened by solitude. i’ll be here, disappearing into these words and getting lost in a book.

𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔰. 𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔢 𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔫.

summer afternoons are ritualistic. a cup of espresso. writing in black ink. roses in every room. incense smoke. a long book to disappear into. the sun on my skin.

i am a hopeless romantic with a gothic appetite, i devour romantasy and vampiric sensuality—my heart and teeth ache with pure hunger.

oil of oregano, raw honey, ginger root wellness. the sweetness of strawberries. the sensuality and mysticism of myrrh incense smoke. the peace of solitude. the beauty of perfume oil, journaling, and reading. roses, lilies, and sheer elegance of glamour. the stillness in the quiet and candlelight.

happy friday the 13th, may luck always find you

triple espresso out on my balcony, drenched in sunlight, moments of writing, reading a vampire novel, incense smoke, brown sugar sweetly on my tongue.

unearthed beneath the strawberry moon, with sweetness on my devotional tongue—rich, metallic, and mystic.

and in my place will grow a feral rose

incense smoke and the rich sweetness of red velvet cake beneath the strawberry moon.

bury our bones in the midnight soil.

the best email “your book order is out for delivery”

today is a day for pleasure, roses, rest, and reading a book.

this summer is going to be so ethereal and sweet, june has already been so beautiful so far.

currently reading: grey dog by elliott gish.

the ritual of reading out on my balcony in the woods with another cup of coffee is rich in love and rich in peace, it is sacred.

mornings of incense smoke, tarot readings, stripping down and laying in the heat of the sun, perusing the pages of a book, writing out on my balcony—sacred silence of solitude, the quiet beauty.

i am both literature and mysticism.

the empress arcana, the mystic archetype.

red candles, frankincense smoke caught in sunlight, a cup of cinnamon spiced tea with honey, and reading a book.

red ribbons of fate, sweet synchronicity.

always in divine alignment

slowly sipping my cappuccino, sitting in the sun in my balcony, writing, the warmth of summer whispering on my skin, a couple of books next to me, existing in the quiet stillness of a beautiful morning.

“and then, one fairy night, may became june.”