Countless crinkled notes litter the space around my chair. A mosaic of messages meant to remind. I uncrumple a page with calloused fingers. I read hollow words that I remember writing, but lack flavor or scent. The best I can manage is artificial volume. Words whipped into cotton candy commentary. My fickle feelings cannot be captured and stamped. They are not railroad spikes or border stones. My inspiration is a valuable and slippery commodity. I am not spontaneous, nor miserly, enough with it.
10:00 p.m. - 2015-10-01
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
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