The pinot in my head spoils without fanfare. Rotten turpentine personality that dribbles out my mouth any time I can't keep it closed. Like a mongoloid child sucking on a greasy nickel. I reread a passage in the tattered half-remains of a dollar store book. A woman who runs, barefoot and nightgowned, through the frozen streets on New York. Screaming and laughing and sobbing that she is a sad, lonely fraud. The searing cold scrubbing her lungs raw.
11:38 a.m. - 2016-12-05
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Elliptical - 2018-06-25
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