I watch subjective perfection in an automaton suit dance against the horizon. I read stuttering syllables of desire in every undulation.
I wipe frequency illusion from my filmy eyes and look again. I have to squint against the glare of emotion.
I see a performers' costume patched together from rigidity and denial. I recognize the weight and oppression of guilt in tiny scripted movements.
I've seen this routine before. The steps are different, but the cadence and tempo and song, the same.
9:46 p.m. - 2015-04-06
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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