I have the grit of tens of thousands of days in my joints. My momentum is slowly grinding to a halt across broken streets. Everything is harder to do, less rewarding to finish. There's a static of geriatrics behind my temples, and it grows louder when the sun sets in the dust bowl. I understand why old men who fought wars, and built the world, settle into rigidity. There's meaningfulness in the murder of execution. It takes so much focus just to keep up, much less adapt to the inevitably rising tides.
11:51 a.m. - 2016-12-12
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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