a nightly journal

a shelf of
your own.

you take one book at a time. each night it asks you one question. you answer in as many words as you have, or as few.

not in the stores yet · leave an email and we'll write once

each night

one question, waiting.

open the book and tonight's question is already on the page. it doesn't rotate at midnight and it doesn't pile up — it waits until you've answered it. come back after three weeks and it's still there, with no comment about the three weeks.

quiet hours · tuesday

what did you almost say today, and why didn't you?

however much or little you like

what's the smallest thing that would make tomorrow easier?
who was good to you today?
what's a word you like the sound of?
what can wait until tomorrow?

a small bookshop

books with their own way of asking.

a small catalog of cloth-bound books, twelve questions each, every book with a voice of its own. add one to your shelf when it looks like your kind of company.

quiet hours — sage green cloth cover with a gold crescent moon — **quiet hours**questions for the parts of the day nobody sees.

the long way home — lavender cloth cover with a gold spiral — **the long way home**questions about where you're headed, asked sideways.

small hours — water blue cloth cover — **small hours**questions for late nights and early mornings.

good company — clay rose cloth cover — **good company**questions about the people you move through your days with.

what you carry — warm ochre cloth cover — **what you carry**questions about the things, rooms and habits that hold your days.

borrowed words — dusty teal cloth cover — **borrowed words**questions about the words you've picked up and kept.

in your own words — butter yellow cloth cover — **in your own words**questions about the person doing the writing.

lighter — periwinkle cloth cover — **lighter**questions for putting the day down gently.

on your side — soft rose cloth cover — **on your side**questions that take your side.

months later

some questions come back.

most questions pass through once. a few are keeps — questions worth asking twice. after a long rest, a keep returns, and once you've answered it again you see what you wrote the first time, beside tonight. never a list, never a count. just then, and now.

where are you pointed right now?

you wrote this in march

honestly? nowhere in particular. i keep waiting for a direction to announce itself.

and this tonight

somewhere, at last. it's small, but it's mine.

and that's all

no one is counting.

everything you write stays on your phone. nothing is sent anywhere, nothing is read, nothing is scored. there are no accounts and no analytics.

no streaks, no reminders, no missed-day guilt. a night away costs nothing, and the book doesn't mention it.

the only number in the whole app is the date on a page.

not in the stores yet

be there when it opens.