The Literary Doc

Beneath new glass, the old stones still remain, Past whispers softly through the rush and rain. We build tomorrow with yesterday in view, Where ancient roots still break the concrete through. Between what was and all we strive to be, We shape our future from shared memory. Beneath the pavement, older footsteps sleep. Beneath the towers, deeper foundations keep The weight of names, of stories left untold, Their traces hidden under steel and gold. The world remakes itself with

The days settle into a sower rhythm— gray skies, quiet rooms, familiar rituals. Some seasons unfold only in their own time. A blanket of cloud presses softly against the windows, muting the world beyond them. The rooms grow quieter, as though the walls themselves have learned the art of waiting. Familiar rituals take root in the spaces between hours: the turning of a page, the brewing of coffee, the glance toward a window that offers the same view as yesterday. Nothing change

What was once a phase becomes etched in the soul. An old-timer’s craft, quietly made whole. Old and new meet in stillness untold, Where solitude deepens, and stories hold. Small habits linger long after they begin, Settling unnoticed beneath the skin. Passing interests, once fleeting and slight, Return through memory in quieter light. The years leave traces no mirror can show, In cherished routines and the things that we know. Fragments of former selves patiently stay, Walkin

New places, new people, new roots. 🤍 A year of quiet courage, where belonging quietly bloomed— as patience learned its proof. The map was unfamiliar then, every street a name to learn, every doorway still unopened, every corner waiting its turn. Home arrived without announcement, not in grand or striking ways, but through ordinary moments gathered slowly into days. A familiar face at morning, a favourite path beneath the sky, small certainties taking shape where questions us

Nothing happens here—yet in that nothing, everything exists. The days drift past like slow clouds over an empty harbour. The same streets. The same coffee shop. The same bell above the door announcing arrivals that are never mine. Morning settles into afternoon with so little resistance that time feels less like a river and more like dust gathering on a windowsill. Somewhere, cities continue without me. Trains arrive. Conversations unfold beneath neon signs. Strangers fall in

October breathes a silver chill, a hush that bids the earth be still; leaves crackle soft beneath our tread, like whispered things we’ve left unsaid. The amber wind, the fading light, lace evening’s edge with fragile might; and something hidden, drawing near, took root within the turning year. Now every spark of gold that falls wanders through quiet orchard halls; October’s breath will always be the pause that changed the scenery.

I walk where echoes weave the ground, yet no foot falls, and none are found. A flame unseen attends my way, it feeds on night, it hides from day. The walls are wide, though close they seem, each stone a gate, each crack a dream. A ceiling hums with distant skies, the stars look back through borrowed eyes. They say the lantern holds no fire, a vessel dim, a fool’s desire. Yet still it glows, though none can see— its light is mine, its night is free. One day, these veils will t

In moments of doubt and days grown cold, We seek the warmth of stories told, Familiar sights and scents unfold. I swore I'd leave, but here I stand, Back in my realm, book in hand. After Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoyevsky's art, Borges and Murakami left their mark upon my heart. War & Peace, a mammoth read, Yet still I followed where the pages lead. Outside, the city moved too quickly. Steel and glass stretched toward the sky, while strangers hurried past one another as though eve

Sometimes, we circle back to the things that quietly made us whole — not out of retreat, but out of clarity. To art, creating, and simply being. The road ahead stretches endlessly, yet the compass turns toward familiar ground. Not every return is a surrender. Some are acts of recognition. Like a river finding its ancient course, or migrating birds tracing invisible paths across a sky they have never forgotten. The things that shaped us wait patiently. A half-filled notebook.

In dreams we dare, in doubt we stall, We cling to shadows, rise or fall. A spark of madness, pure yet sly, Turns dust to stars, and earth to sky. So chase delusion, bold and free, For what we dream, we come to be. There comes a tide that knows our name, though no map marks where it begins. It gathers quietly beneath ordinary days, pulling at unseen anchors, loosening roots we thought eternal. The shoreline hesitates. The sea does not. Somewhere beyond the horizon, a lantern b

From the first sip, a love was born, In a cozy café, one quiet morn. @19dripscoffee, your coffee divine, Immaculate brew, each cup, a sign. To my supporters, a grateful cheer, For every cup, year after year. In your warmth, I find my space, A cozy haven, a special place. You'll never be replaced. Some places arrive quietly. Not with grand introductions or memorable first impressions, but through small returns. A familiar door. The soft hum of conversation. The scent of coffee

Michigan, it's been a year. Time sure flies. One day you leave. The city continues without you. New faces fill familiar spaces. New stories unfold behind café windows. Yet memory is stubborn. It preserves certain afternoons exactly as they were. A cup of coffee. A wandering cat. A book tucked beneath one arm. The wind changing its mind again. Somewhere, all of it still exists. A2 will always be home. And Michigan Ave will always be my space.