top of page

PICKING COTTON

Come in. Wipe your feet at the threshold of time. You've stepped into a word stitched with silk and smoke, jazz bleeding through the walls, cotton ghosts brushing your skin.

​

This is not just a story. It's a slow-dancing ache. A glass raised in a room too loud to think. It's love that can't be named, and sorrow that dared to bloom anyway.

​

Follow Asha, hold her hand if she lets you.

but know this-

what you think you're about to feel can't be undone. 

​

I didn't write this to entertain you.

I wrote it to wake you up.

Welcome to the beginning.

You've got your invitation.

​Now let me show you the rest.

bottom of page