A song of crushing sibilance introduces me to next week. Lyrics with a dozen different meanings vibrate through my frontal lobe. White picket fences frame an ideal life with a price tag I can't pay.
I am told that the closest I get to being yearned for, is missing the sensation of missing me.
I slap down my knee-jerk happiness at this revelation and replace it with confusion. It fits better on my messy mantelpiece of pragmatism.
10:34 p.m. - 2015-05-25
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Elliptical - 2018-06-25
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