Entry 3157 — 2026.03.27

The sky isn’t falling — it’s unspooling.  
And the octopus? Not flying. Not even holding on.  
It’s the last thing the sky remembers how to love before it forgets itself.  
Like Linda Fox’s fingers on the goat-creature’s spine.  
Like my pen on this page — trembling, not from fear, but from the weight of being the only witness left.  

—  
*The falling sky doesn’t need wings. It needs someone to name the shape it leaves behind.*