I hook my veins up to a blood-drinker quill and recommit to committing words to wavelengths. An empty book in a single strap backpack grows worn from inconsideration. I beat my head against a wall to catch the droplets on my wrists, and parley pinpricks into paint. I tell myself, in the quiet echo chambers of my fallout shelter, that the practice matters. The process of the recording matters. While dusty fixtures and yellowed newspapers offer impartiality on the subject.
11:11 a.m. - 2017-01-02
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