Returning to a land of flesh and gristle, long after the scars have healed. There's music in the sky, in minor key, against moaning winds. A cracked ivory statuette is in no fit state for gatekeeping. That's odd, I was expecting someone else (you don't know your own mind). Finding an old photo album jammed into another life, from years ago. Lurid and empty photos chronicle ostensible narcissism. The kind that keeps happening, like the cycling of an empty .44 chamber. It's comfortable here, where the world has forgotten. The trickles of ichor on the walls gurgle a warning to stay away. I would, if there was anything worth keeping safe.
12:21 a.m. - 2019-08-06
Recent entries:
Utter Dissatisfaction - 2019-08-27
Apatheism - 2019-08-23
Inward Etched - 2019-08-19
Nymphaeadeath - 2019-08-19
Cracked Glimmers - 2019-08-12
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