Weeks of words imploding in an evening of quiet. Zero-for-two on reciprocity. Unmade deliveries, suffocated with guilt, and then buried under agencylessness. The interminable dragging of digital lines. A distended stomach growing under force-fed dissatisfaction. The consolation prize of quick study, still insufficient in suffused starlight. A growth of gratitude watered in the background walls. Gathering an armfuls of dolls and retreating into a better tomorrow. Tiny trained voices that whisper wants to me, rather than the hidden other-way-round.
2:23 p.m. - 2021-10-01
Recent entries:
Something Like Exploration - 2021-10-07
Ninety-Seven Years Spent - 2021-10-07
A Peat Bog - 2021-10-01
Patter Son - 2021-10-01
Don't Like Very Much - 2021-10-01
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