Dusty streams of window-light in the scorching dawn. Sifting through scattered boxes of mismatched, floor-strewn ammo. Gunshots somewhere behind the frost-capped hills. Sorting and resorting my threadbare backpack. The contents secondary to the process. Temporary inoculation against the monotonous singing of loneliness. More semi-automatic chattering a few buildings away. All the roads lead to dead cities around the sun.
10:54 a.m. - 2020-10-22
Recent entries:
Merry Happiness - 2020-12-23
Sorry, Songbird - 2020-12-23
Worldly Dairyfarm - 2020-12-16
The Oxidization of Life - 2020-12-16
Playing with playthings - 2020-12-09
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