THE
COUNT

When a headline assigns foreign approval to a people fighting for their future, it stops being journalism and starts misrecording history.

After forty seven years of repression, Iran Rising enters a decisive moment as nationwide protests reveal a people moving together in clarity and resolve.

As Iran enters its sixth day of nationwide protests, President Trump issues a public warning against the killing of demonstrators while Tehran responds with denial and force.

On Iran Rising Day Six, unarmed crowds across more than fifty cities chant Reza Pahlavi, endure deadly crackdowns, and declare their future aloud.

In Iran, time is measured in executions, prisons, and absences. As global audiences respond to stories of courage, a deeper question emerges: who pays for patience when delay itself becomes political?

In Virginia’s backcountry, the noise of the world falls away. What remains is the work of fire and shelter, the silence of trees, and the stars’ indifferent watch.

I left Aix-les-Bains at 7:42 that night, the train cutting through fog that swallowed the valleys whole. I was not chasing Geneva’s promenades. I was chasing a story. In June 1816, Mary Godwin was eighteen years old. She was still Mary Godwin and not yet Mary Shelley. She sat at Villa Diodati with Percy, Byron, and Claire Clairmont. Storms sealed them indoors, and Byron, restless, demanded ghost stories. Out of that confinement came Frankenstein. Standing at the edge of Lake

A hand rests on the raw plank. Before any blade bites or a clamp draws breath, before the scent of shavings settles in the room, there is this quiet meeting: skin to wood, pulse to pattern.

We were lazy before. Now we are outsourcing our very ability to think. From autocorrected spelling to AI-crafted “original” ideas, the human mind is slipping quietly into obsolescence. This is not about killer robots. It is about the quiet, creeping erosion of effort, memory, and discernment—one convenient prompt at a time.

I used to explain my pain—to prove it was real, to make it easier for others to understand. But explanation never softened the ache. It only made me disappear inside it. Now, I let the silence speak. Some healing does not need an audience.