I queue up a hundred handwritten notes on a parchment heart. Two-dimensional and well-preserved, with smashed-flat wrinkles from the weight of overwhelming silence. I hook up my old blood-drinker quill and plug in into familiar track mark scars. My ink is thin and tired and black. I scrawl little notes next to lovingly rendered sketches from an old "Wanted" poster. Music with lyrics in a foreign language plays in my head, and I hum along even though I've never heard the song before.
2:03 p.m. - 2016-04-25
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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