Old aches vanish and reappear through overcast Sundays. The sun follows suit over familiar urban grayscapes. I'm a young man who is too old. Or a juvenile geriatric. Holes of missing persons punched through me like cookie-cutter templates. The breeze whistles through in brisk, static whorls. The silence of empty rooms vibrates hard. They swallow shouts bellowed from a ribcage shrinkwrapped in frustration.
10:23 a.m. - 2017-03-27
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
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