My cartographers tools are chipped and rusted from hundreds of unpackings. I travel quietly across landscapes of old age and tired routine. Old methodologies coat my fingertips like a film of greasy ash. The shake of my practiced hands is indiscernible to the endless stream of skin merchants with which I conduct my business. I'm tired of shopping for wares of conventional extravagances. My crinkled and infinite maps have charted loneliness for more than enough years. I leave a piece of myself behind with every passing landscape and discarded lover, like a tiny annexation.
11:11 a.m. - 2016-12-19
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
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea