Enter quietly. These are rooms without doors — lit from the inside, yet never fully seen from the street. Some are small and spare. Others are crowded with memory, contradiction, or unspoken names.

The texts you’ll find here are neither essays nor stories. They hover somewhere between reflection and exposure, dream and document. They speak of exile and return, belief and doubt, fire and silence. There is no single voice — only a shifting self trying to speak clearly while still breathing.

Some pieces are written in a whisper. Others flare like matches. What binds them is a sense of inwardness, of confrontation without spectacle. A confession, here, is not a surrender. It’s a moment of presence — awkward, sharp-edged, and sometimes painfully true.

Come in, if you like. But don’t expect everything to be explained.