Quiet walks make for short weekends. When every necessitated stride slices away the hours. I jettison junk both alive and inorganic out the front door of my life. It's gone by the morning. The disappearance and abandonment was a long time coming. My friend of a thousand years comes and goes. Just a sometimes wraith, dragging with her the shroud of purgatories. I can hear her at night sometimes, wringing missed opportunities from stained cotton with bare hands. I drown the sound out with the violent silence I find inside my closed eyelids.
12:26 p.m. - 2017-02-06
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