Tiny pixel stickpeople with embers for hats giggle like demented schoolchildren. The sound is an alarm to bring my best and brightest technique. I Grima Wormtongue myself with staccato murmurs, like a one-sided shoulder angel. Across an ocean of black concrete, a doll with a porcelain mask waits for the sound of my vibrating chuckle. I try and scrounge one up from the tickle of cancer in my liver.
9:33 p.m. - 2016-03-23
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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