I open parchment pressed from consonance. It smells like regret. Apathy. Forgetting. Weakness.
I dip my quill in the ink of my blood and saliva unceremoniously.
It's time for work.
I summon lullabies of sand-worn bone and hymns of charcoal. I pull out old, bleached photographs to remind myself of perfection. They stain my hands with truths that burn my fingertips. I do not relent. My eyes turn to crystal, my heart sings of golden stitches, and every diamond dust letter I scrawl whispers of dedication. Inspiration. Reclamation.
10:42 p.m. - 2015-01-22
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