I stack books with frayed canvas covers six feet deep. I cut my fingers on browned pulp. I suck bright blue blood from the wound without wincing.
I hum a melody of giddiness that I can't remember the words to. The vibrations tickle my lungs while the chapters of my reading tickles my throat.
I handle each tome with the reverence of a holy relic. I pore over words I don't remember writing.
My handwriting is unmistakable. As are the rectangular-shaped feelings attached to each confessional block.
11:34 p.m. - 2015-04-23
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
Heartdesert - 2018-06-25
Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea