The moon is cleft in twain by quiet highways. I walk the edge of a miniature literal dust bowl. Overgrown with golden lilies and unchecked birch. I pull a photo of a little girl bear from my shoe and whisper about how everything has grown. A white jacket below me stops to watch me for a moment before disappearing into the treeline. The purification of my consonance tastes like ammonia and ketosis.
10:21 p.m. - 2016-04-24
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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