The descending winter turns my garage into a meat locker. I'm shirtless and bathing in steam while my knuckles turn into bone protrusions. Softened by the cold and the damp. There is no yielding or mercy.
I made a dozen oaths to myself, about investments of greater care. They all fall from my mind like a scatter of leaves from my children's hands. I make a liar of myself, time and again. So I excoriate myself against the immutable truth of my heavy bag. Beating the anger at myself out through my elbows and hands.
Limited breadth. Shallow depth. The same as everyone.
10:48 p.m. - 2015-11-27
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Elliptical - 2018-06-25
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