A dried and cracked grease pencil stencils dates on an old and moldy calendar. An itinerary of dates with white-eyed lovers. I pile all my responsibilities into a beat up box, and hastily shove it in an overfull closet. I'll sort it later, sometime during the following week-that-never-comes. The silent, distended maw of validation that hangs behind me needs feeding, right now.
11:37 a.m. - 2016-12-12
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