Half a dozen silent beckoning mouths yawn at my descent. I slide ever-downward into a muddy Labyrinth hole. Hands turned into familiar feminine faces. The fingers and wrists are greasy as I scrabble for purchase on the jutting pseudo-features. I am weak and desperate, and seem to find myself suspended just above this oubliette much too often. By the sheer game of numbers and practice alone. A junkie's cycle, but with wetware and silver tongues instead of gear and debt.
8:47 p.m. - 2016-04-06
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