I wipe a film of moldy shadows from a stack of vintage photographs. I try and restore the details on the bleached images with splotches of memory. A stippling brush is a poor weapon of dissemination. The whiteout in my mind argues with my self-preservation. I beat back hundreds of days abandonment with Taoist pacifism. The pictures grow lighter by iota's. Yellowed and a touch faded, but still magnificent, and literally beyond compare. I lock them back into a chest of soft sunlight. It brings the comforting taste of old exposure.
11:20 p.m. - 2015-02-03
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
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Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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