The first days of spring were heralded by a razor sharp horizon of fallout. The white light of bleached concrete seeps under my closed eyelids. The afternoon tattooed an unexpected sunburn into my ankle. The day had a thin, sharp patina-flavor of hyperrealism. Counterpoint to the breeze that washed me in absolution of guilt. I rinse my fingers of the fetters of a murdered woman-child in overgrown grass. My bare wrists make for lighter hands, and slower work.
10:41 a.m. - 2017-03-13
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Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
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