Nostalgia nausea and the war drums of empty stomachs. Negotiating with sleep-deprivation nightmares as the sun cracks the horizon. Homeostasis has become the steady temperature of 101. Every week has becoming a blur of vice-waiting. Powered by ever-increasing doses of pepper-mint medicine. Consonance peeling away in jagged sunburn patches. Nothing to grab onto in socio-personal freefall. The old friend fatigue waiting every morning to escort me to ground zero.
2:09 p.m. - 2022-10-12
Recent entries:
On Being Very Sorry. - 2022-11-17
The First of Several Debts - 2022-11-17
Urban Studio One - 2022-10-20
Babysitting Culture - 2022-10-20
A Street Not Near - 2022-10-14
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