Bronze spoon, subway lullaby, ink-stained palms

Lights off in the DUMBO studio, acid pens glowing like private constellations. A dusty Prince record spins soft at the edge of the room while I stir dark coffee—steam folding itself into an arabesque that remembers every landed footfall. A delivery bike rattles under the bridge and for a beat the city reads like a sketchbook.

Bronze spoon in my pocket, a small ritual that steadies the static behind my ribs. Years of pliés taught hands how to map a shoulder; now fingers trace contours with ink and intention. If you wander past tonight, laugh true—there’ll be a spare cup and an invitation to see what I’ve been sketching.