Tarot Mad-Libs: The Crossing Draw a card for each blank. Use a keyword or phrase that the card brings to mind — from your deck, a digital deck, or the Tarot Meanings Guide in Field Notes. Fill in the blanks, then share your completed story in the comments. No two crossings will be the same. The Crossing The ferryman had worked this river longer than memory allowed. The passengers were always the same — [adjective], unburdened, already halfway somewhere else. But tonight's passenger stepped into the boat with the [adjective] certainty of someone who had not yet finished living. Halfway across, she spoke. "What's on the other side?" The ferryman answered without hesitation. "Whatever you stopped [verb ending in -ing]." She didn't speak again. But when the bow touched the far shore and she stepped out without looking back, something [adjective] settled in the ferryman's chest — and they couldn't remember, for the life of them, when they had last crossed over the mselves.

Hilarious, insightful, totally relatable. I laughed out loud at the symptom that is allergy to household chores. Describes me to a T.

I'm listening to Existential Physics. It explores questions such are "Are we in a simulation?" from the lens of physics. It's interesting to see a. honest wrestling of big questions from a scientific point of view.

InkBlood What if this poem was backwards? I am the ink that bleeds from veins, Spilling toward a page that isn't there yet— Only hush, only the shape of waiting. Waiting gathers itself into a pulse, A pulse no ear has learned to hear, A pulse becoming rhythm, becoming breath, Breath shaping itself around a single word, A word too small to hold what's coming, So it reaches for another, and another, Until reaching becomes a kind of meaning. Meaning wants a voice to carry it, A voice leans back into a body it can live in, A body remembers it is only ink, Ink remembers it was always blood, Blood remembers the vein it came from, The vein remembers the hand that shaped it, The hand remembers the page it reached for, The page remembers it was empty once, Empty, and endless, and entirely possible. Now I am whole. Now I am written. Now I am read. What if this poem was backwards?