I am swallowed by the evening whole. The harder I run, the deeper the stain of the skies.
I invariably find myself down on my knees. Kneeling in hollow worship at the inner-source of ink. I always return to this place despite having eschewed it many times. I feel the comfort of nothingness. It wraps me in a shroud of temporary absolution.
The ichor within whispers garbled anger to me. I brush it off like so much detritus. I come back because I cannot pretend this isn't here. My pool of shadows. I can dip my fingertips into the well of midnight, and feel familiarity slide around my knuckles, even though I have nothing more to add.
Sometimes, I like it here. This place. This reservoir. With A Lesson In Controlling Everything.
10:47 p.m. - 2014-06-17
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Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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