🪷 : Museum-date!?
(.k) she is (lovingly) rare.
#katarina-ism, xo.
📨 / I do collect oddments:
The hush before closing time, a flower with no business blooming there, the sort of beauty that never once asked to be immortalised. 사소한 것들의 편애, perhaps.
Pray, what is a day but a pocketful of trifles dressed in sunday best? A gallery glance, a fig split like a secret, a little green thing growing where nobody thought to look.
I have made a parlour trick of noticing:
The fig’s sugared seam, the museum’s hush, the small green mischief growing between cracks. What a queer little fortune, to be so easily enchanted.
A little orchard of almosts, a few sun-warmed recollections, and thee turning up in places memory swore it had already vacated. I call it sentiment; the heart, that incorrigible archivist, calls it evidence: 🍊!!
Buttoned-up sentimentality
is a peculiar little craft:
I keep sewing summer into the hems of (ordinary days), hoping the season won’t notice me stealing its last few sun-drunken hours. (여름아, 아직 가지 마.) 🧿
Chicago called and my footnotes answered; somewhere between a dog-eared chapter and a door left ajar, I’m learning that becoming is less a grand entrance than a quiet change of address.
Developed in low light,
kept in high regard:
필름 속에 남겨둔 밤의 잔상, a little flashbulb-fated and thoroughly dgaf by the evidence.

























