There's a scattering of broken marionettes strewn about my dusty interpersonal calendar. I cut my feet on plainly visible concertina cords. I kick angrily at offending dolls, who are in the precisely same place I left them. Idiot. My hands are hobbled from amateurish time at the social spinning wheel. A dozen manual thread-wounds might remind me to be more considerate. I reach for my plastic sealant standby, and find my bottle of superglue empty. Karma, perhaps.
9:21 p.m. - 2016-02-28
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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