The taste of sport-fucking is bland and viscous. It fades quickly under distraction. Recalling it beckons just a little bit of gag reflex.
I put some distance between myself and my life with strong, staccato strides. I frame a settled sunset between index fingers and thumbs. Tiny insects and cherub down make a thin slice of idyllism.
I return home to find my menagerie of dolls broken and unhappy. I brush away glass from their faces the same way I brush away my irritation at the inconvenience of required empathy.
8:39 p.m. - 2016-04-11
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Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
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