In Japan’s seasonal almanac, this is a sacred hinge. A turning inward. A breath held before the descent. Insects burrow underground. Fields are drained for harvest. The world quiets, and so do we.
the PULSE
ABOUT The Author
Welcome to Mirukashi Ink, the literary heart of Mirukashi —
where thought becomes texture,
and language lingers like flavor. I write for those who crave more than content.
This is a place to tether yourself —
to taste, to season, to meaning, to the poetry of living.
Pull up a chair and dive in.
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