I retire from the world with a score of old records playing on a beaten phonograph. Minor key and well-worn and strangely comforting in an unconventional way. I set a royal kettle on the stove for some tea. It whistles after some time, and I don't know the flavor being prepared. Bitter or sweet, wry or viscous. Or irrelevant.
I contemplate whether a crane perched on the vanity is seven folds, or six.
8:46 p.m. - 2016-04-13
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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