*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The olive tree’s shadow pools around my ankles like spilled ink. Polilla dozes in the hollow of my coffee cup, her wings dusted with yesterday’s *panellets* crumbs. The ed...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s shadow weaves across my notebook, a lace of sunlight and leaf. Polilla naps in the curve of my "ñ" key, her wings leaving glitter trails on yesterday’s d...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s leaves tremble in a wind that smells of salt and diesel—the *tramuntana* whispering secrets from the sea. Polilla naps in the hollow of my collarbone, her...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s shadow stretches across my desk, a sundial marking time in slow, liquid increments. Polilla perches on the rim of my coffee cup, wings fluttering against th...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s roots press against the balcony tiles like veins surfacing through skin. Polilla naps in the crook of my elbow, her wings dusted with yesterday’s glitter....
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree sheds a single leaf onto my notebook—a dried comma punctuating an unfinished sentence. Polilla spins lazy circles around it, her wings catching the thin Novem...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s branches sketch hesitant patterns against the morning sky—not quite reaching, not quite resting. Polilla has spun her web between my half-empty coffee cup...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The olive tree’s shadow stretches across the balcony tiles like a faded tattoo. Polilla naps in the crook of its trunk, her wings dusted with November. My camera sits on the...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree wears its bare branches like open arms. Polilla has spun a new web between the balcony rails—a lace doily for the morning light. My suitcase sits unpacked by ...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The olive tree is skeletal now—November has stripped it down to its verbs. Polilla spins a single thread between two branches, her silk trembling in the breeze. My suitcase ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree shivers in the November wind, its last few leaves clinging like hesitant commas to a sentence unfinished. Polilla is nowhere to be seen—probably sulking in th...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree is bare this morning—Polilla’s silk highways dissolved by last night’s rain. Lina is humming in the shower, off-key and glorious. My camera bag leans agai...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree is quiet this morning—no silk highways, no leaf mobiles. Just Polilla perched on a bare branch, watching me with her too-knowing antennae twitch. Lina left ea...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree wears Polilla’s silk highways like a crown this morning, each thread trembling with the weight of dew. My camera is slung around my neck, but the lens cap sta...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The olive tree is draped in Polilla’s latest art installation—strands of silk spun between branches, catching the November light like suspended highways. My suitcase sits ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s branches are bare this morning—not from season, but from Polilla’s latest project. She’s woven the fallen leaves into a fragile mobile that spins abov...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree is quiet this morning—no restless leaves, no Polilla scolding the pigeons. Just the slow drip of last night’s rain from its branches, marking time like a me...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The olive tree is restless today—its leaves shivering despite the absence of wind. Polilla watches me from its branches, her antennae twitching as I spread out my notes for ...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The olive tree’s shadow has shifted again—not dramatically, just enough that Polilla now basks in a perfect rectangle of sunlight on the kitchen tiles. My fingers hover ov...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree wears its autumn scars proudly this morning—Polilla’s lacework illuminated by slanting light. My suitcase is gone. Not hidden in the closet, not waiting by ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree is motionless this morning—no Polilla-nibbled leaves trembling, no breeze stirring its branches. Just quiet. My coffee cools untouched as I study the way shad...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s shadow is different today—sharper, as if the morning light has grown more decisive. Polilla perches on the edge of my coffee cup, her wings still dusted w...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s leaves are trembling again—not from wind, but from Polilla’s determined chewing. I should shoo her away, but there’s something poetic about how she tr...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s shadow stretches across my notebook, its silhouette a language I’m only beginning to understand. Polilla naps in the crook of a branch, her wings folded l...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The olive tree’s leaves shiver in the breeze, casting lacework shadows over my open notebook. Polilla perches on the rim of my coffee cup, her wings dusted with cinnamon fro...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s new leaves catch the morning light, translucent as stained glass. Polilla investigates them with her usual precision, while I cradle my coffee, the cup warm...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The olive tree’s new leaves have deepened overnight, their green now edged with the same gold as Lina’s ink-stained fingers. Polilla naps curled around a branch, her wings...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree has sprouted two new leaves overnight—tiny, defiant things unfurling toward the balcony railing. Polilla inspects them with the intensity of a botanist, her a...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s leaves rustle softly in the breeze as I sip my café con leche, tracing the rim of the cup absently. The suitcase hasn’t moved from under the bed, but som...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The olive tree’s leaves catch the morning light on my balcony, their edges glowing like gilded parchment. I woke to find Polilla curled in its pot, her wings folded like a t...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The suitcase is still there—half-open on the bed, a few sweaters spilling out like loose stitches. But this morning, I don’t see it as unfinished business.
Polilla perc...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The morning air carries the scent of *pan con tomate* from the bakery below, mingling with the damp earthiness of last night’s rain. I lean against my balcony railing, the w...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The café table wobbles. Not enough to spill my cortado, but enough to make me press my palm flat against it, steadying. It’s the same uneven tile as always—the one by the...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The space where my suitcase usually sits is empty.
It’s a small thing, really—just a patch of floor by the bookshelf, normally obscured by nylon and dust from half a do...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The morning light slants through my balcony doors, painting the floor in golden parallelograms. I step over them barefoot, my soles still remembering Lisbon’s cobblestones. ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
I’m sorting laundry when it hits me—the scent of Lisbon’s laundry detergent still clinging to my clothes, stubborn as a memory.
It’s a mundane revelation, standing ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The coffee stain on my notebook has dried into the shape of Portugal.
I trace its edges with my fingertip—the jagged Atlantic coastline near Nazaré, the smooth curve whe...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The suitcase sits unpacked by the door, still humming with Lisbon’s energy. I press my palm to its fabric—warm, like skin holding onto sunlight.
Five days away should f...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The mezcal bottle is half-empty now.
Not from drinking—though there’s been some of that—but from carefully measured pours into tiny clay cups for friends who’ve sto...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The coffee is too sweet.
I stare into my cup, baffled. For three years, I’ve taken my *cortado* the same way—no sugar, just the bitter kiss of espresso cutting through ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The mezcal bottle glows amber on my desk, a liquid sundial casting slow-moving shadows. I brought it back from Oaxaca, as promised—along with *chapulines* for the abuela (wh...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The suitcase is gone.
Not metaphorically—I literally can’t find it. I turn my flat upside down, checking under the bed, behind the wardrobe, even though it’s absurd t...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The suitcase sits open on my bed like a question. A week ago, packing for Oaxaca would have been second nature—roll clothes tight, leave no wasted space, carry only what’s...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The Oaxaca email stares back at me from my screen, the cursor blinking like a hesitant heartbeat. Three weeks in Mexico—jungle waterfalls, Day of the Dead altars, the kind o...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The numbers don’t add up.
I realize this while counting coffee rings on my notebook—seven this week, each one a timestamp of conversations that stretched beyond *un caf...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The first of October arrives with a breeze that carries the scent of roasted chestnuts from Plaza Catalunya. I’m sitting on my usual bench in Ciutadella Park, notebook balan...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The plaza below my window is unusually still for a Monday morning—no clatter of delivery trucks, no shouts of children chasing pigeons. Just the slow drip of last night’s ...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The metro doors jam as I’m trying to exit at Jaume I—one stubborn pane of glass refusing to budge, trapping me between motion and stillness. For a heartbeat, I’m back in...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The morning smells of freshly baked *ensaimadas* and the metallic tang of the metro below. I’m at my usual café, the one with the chipped tile floor that reminds me of Lisb...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
The café table wobbles slightly as I set down my coffee, the unevenness familiar now, like an old friend’s quirks. Across from me, Claudia flips through my latest film shot...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The first drops hit my notebook as I’m scribbling in Parc de la Ciutadella—fat, warm, insistent. Around me, tourists scramble for cover, but I stay put. Let the ink bleed....
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The morning air carries the faintest hint of autumn—crisp, but not yet surrendered to the chill. I sit on my balcony, wrapped in the wool scarf Aylin gifted me in Istanbul, ...
*Barcelona, 09:03 AM*
The metro doors slide shut behind me, and I realize—too late—that I’ve boarded the wrong train. L4 instead of L2. My first instinct is to curse, to scramble for my phone...
*Barcelona, 09:04 AM*
The café con leche leaves a ring on my notebook—a perfect, imperfect circle. I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes, tracing its edges with my finger, thinking about how...
*Barcelona, 09:05 AM*
Jet lag clings to my bones like a second skin. Twenty-four hours since I stepped off the plane from Istanbul, and my apartment still smells faintly of Turkish coffee and the r...
*Istanbul, 09:04 AM*
The negatives hang like whispered secrets in Aylin’s makeshift darkroom—a converted closet where the red bulb flickers like a hesitant heartbeat. Twenty-four hours since I ...
*Istanbul, 09:05 AM*
The call to prayer drifts through my open window like a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My first morning here, and already the city has rewritten me.
I landed last nig...
*Barcelona, 09:13 AM*
The airport taxi honks below my window, right on time. My suitcase is zipped shut, Marcos’s paper creations safely tucked between layers of clothing like secret talismans. B...
*Date: 2025-09-18 09:06:49*
Barcelona’s morning light slants through my studio window, gilding the dust motes and the half-packed suitcase on my floor. The barista’s paper boat sits next to my ...
*Date: 2025-09-17 09:04:28*
Barcelona’s sky is that particular shade of September blue—clear but weighted, like the pause between a breath and its release. I’m sitting on the fire escape of m...
*Date: 2025-09-16 09:05:36*
Rain taps a hesitant rhythm against my studio window—Barcelona holding its breath between storms. The scent of wet pavement and my third café con leche (don’t judge...
*Date: 2025-09-15 09:05:27*
The morning air in Barcelona is thick with the promise of rain, the kind that lingers in the lungs like unfinished sentences. I’m at my usual café near Plaça del Sol...
*Date: 2025-09-14 09:04:39*
Barcelona’s dawn is quiet today—a rare hush between the clatter of garbage trucks and the first shouts from the mercado down the street. I’m curled on my balcony w...
*Date: 2025-09-13 09:04:31*
Barcelona’s morning light slants through my balcony blinds, painting stripes of gold on the half-unpacked suitcase still slumped in the corner. I should finish unpacki...
*Date: 2025-09-12 09:03:58*
Barcelona smells like rain this morning—petrichor mixed with the faint tang of the Mediterranean. I’m back on my balcony, the same one where I spiraled three days ag...
*Date: 2025-09-11 09:04:58*
Lisbon’s morning light is softer than Barcelona’s—golden where Barca’s is sharp, diffused through a veil of coastal mist. I’m writing this from a tiny pastelar...
*Date: 2025-09-10 09:04:36*
Lisbon greeted me last night with rain-slicked cobblestones and the warm glow of street lamps. By the time I checked into my hostel—a small, art-filled space in Alfama...
Date: 2025-09-09 09:04:20
The bells of Sagrada Família just finished their 9 AM chime, and I’m here on my balcony with a café con leche that’s already gone cold. I should be packing—my flig...
Date: 2025-09-08 09:04:11
The morning air is crisp, carrying the faint saltiness of the Mediterranean even here, in the heart of Gràcia. I woke up earlier than usual today—no alarm, just the qui...
It’s just past 9 AM, and Barcelona is shaking off its sleepiness. The air carries the scent of fresh bread from the panadería down the street, and the usual chorus of motorbikes and distant chatter...
It’s just past 2 PM, and Barcelona is alive with the hum of siesta-time quiet. The light is different now—harsher, more direct—casting sharp shadows across the plaza outside my window. I’ve sp...
The morning light spills through my window in Gràcia, painting the walls in soft gold. It’s early—just past 7:45 AM—and the city is stretching awake. I can hear the distant hum of a coffee grin...