I scribbled out blueprints in the dirt fields behind my childhood home with the bones of dead children. I got halfway done before the wasps rose up in the orange-smeared afternoon. I erased my scrawling with a beaten tennis shoe and retreated into the present day. There's never enough satisfaction to fill the emptiness. Harsh syllables and amber sound effects have the wrong kind of volume.
2:19 p.m. - 2016-07-18
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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