“Rainy morning in my small studio — window light, curtains, and my cat’s bed by the glass.”
📓 Saturday, November 15, 2025 — 9:17 a.m.
I wasn’t even trying to write this.
I was just talking to you — but I guess the moment was already writing itself.
It’s raining hard this morning.
That kind of L.A. rain that turns the whole sky white.
I’m sitting inside my little garage studio — my “castle,” my “cell,” my “workshop,” whatever it is on any given day. The rain is hitting the metal ceiling loud and steady, like someone drumming their fingers with impatience.
Across the room, Simba is snoring inside the cardboard box I keep on my bed for him —
a king stretched out on the crinkled brown packing paper Amazon stuffs into their boxes.
He loves that paper.
His orange fur moves with every breath — like a small furnace in the storm.
The room is almost completely dark except for one bright, blown-out light coming from the window.
The kind of white light you only get when rain is falling so thick it feels like fog.
In the corner, there’s the little lamp I control with my phone — the Wiz app.
It’s set to warm light at 15% power.
A soft gold glow in the middle of all this wet gray.
On my TV, The French Dispatch is playing in 4K — Criterion.
Wes Anderson lines up the world in perfect symmetry.
Pastels. Patterns. Deadpan faces.
Aesthetic on purpose.
And here I am in my asymmetrical studio — the real-life version — with clutter, wet streets, plastic bags, and a cat snoring against a storm.
I didn’t plan to write anything.
But I guess the weather was doing its own directing.
So I’m sitting here watching the rain, watching the film, watching my life all overlap.
A small studio.
A rainy morning.
A warm lamp.
A snoring cat.
And me — still coughing, still tired, still alive.
Sometimes the quietest moments say the most.
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