Welcome to Levee Hollow—the only corner of my office where time slows, screens vanish, and creativity hums like cicadas at dusk.

There are no electronic devices here. No laptop glare, no blinking cursors waiting impatiently. Just an old writing desk, a manual typewriter with keys that clack like bayou rain on a tin roof, and the soft glow of a candle lit to summon atmosphere and silence in equal measure.

A fountain pen rests nearby, partnered with an inkwell that’s seen its share of late-night reckonings and half-formed oaths. This is where thoughts gather—not as data, but as stories whispered by the river.

I call it Levee Hollow because sitting here feels like perching atop the levee itself, watching the mighty Mississippi drift by, steady and unhurried. The river carries memories. This desk captures them.

Ideas that surface in this sanctuary take their time—they evolve differently than those sparked by digital urgency. And when one feels ready, I leave the Hollow, cross into the digital realm, and give it space to bloom anew.