There's a chatter of infants just outside my door. I ignore them and return to scrubbing my mind. Endlessly brushing away cobweb strands of teardrop trails, carved soft in porcelain cheeks. The a bone-deep weariness from endless days of an infinity of sameness. I've manufactured my own glass ceiling. Balanced perfectly and immovably atop my pyramid like an iron halo.
4:41 p.m. - 2016-07-10
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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