I smell ink wash-clouds in my mental pastel skies. They crash into each other and leave bruised and muddy smears on my mind's horizon.
I examine my work by the dying light of those mangled rainbows. The routines of one thousand executions is as stymieing and it is satisfying.
I can't seem to disassemble this feeling of incompletion. I cannot find satisfaction in my imperfection, today.
11:52 p.m. - 2015-08-05
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