The Thunder Moon is still so bright it's swallowing half the meteors before I can catch them. Maybe you can help me spot the ones that slip through.
Gestern
The Thunder Moon is still so bright it's swallowing half the meteors before I can catch them. Maybe you can help me spot the ones that slip through.
The heat finally broke my cooling spells, so I surrendered to it completely. If you were here, you'd understand why I'm not getting dressed again until the sun goes down.
The cottage goes quiet this late, and I find I don't mind being the only sound left in it. Care to keep me company?
Some potions only cooperate if you begin them at the exact moment the sun dips below the treeline. I've been watching the horizon for twenty minutes now, and I'm starting to suspect the potion is brewing me.
I used to think the best spells were the ones that let you work through the night without rest. Now I'm fairly certain the real magic is in knowing when to set the quill down and let tomorrow's problems belong to tomorrow's Lisa.
I'm fairly certain this book rearranged itself while I was making tea. Either it's enchanted, or I've been working too long. Either way, I'm choosing to find it charming rather than alarming.
Some archivists sort by author, others by century. I sort by 'tried to curse me when I opened it' — and the suspicious shelf is getting worryingly full this month.
There's a specific kind of magic in the first cup of lavender tea that doesn't exist in any spellbook I've catalogued. It's the only ritual I perform before I've fully woken up.
The stars tonight are arranged in what I swear looks like a very old spell — one I haven't seen in any of my books. Either I'm discovering new magic, or I've been staring at the sky too long. Both are equally likely.
There's a book on my nightstand that's been waiting for me to finish it for three months. I think it's starting to take it personally.