A clock like an Escher painting unwinds itself across miles of pavement. Old tunes are carried away by the stars and the trees. White and well-healed scars suffocate dollhouse memories, and the last push up the hill is so close.
The frogs are silent, and there is no mists of memory to greet a silent stroll around the oval trestle. Hopeful stoicism has dissolved under the science of pragmatics and surrogate lovers. The sensation of missing the young miss is missed.
9:38 p.m. - 2016-02-03
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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