The weight of rusted freight trains bears down across a week of iron pyrite sunsets. I drown silently across countless tomorrows. Scalded by fuzzy, muted yesterdays. A new stack of yellowed pages sits strewn and waiting on the floor on an empty room. One hundred thousand phrases wait to be broken into sharper hexagons. Lock boxes keep me safe from myself. New structures arise from the ashes of routine. The calm before the weird, berserker storm of zombies is tense and stretched thin. My breaths come in shorter, shallower mouthfuls. Every gulp burns from liver to lung. Tear-me-down walls still keep the real world out. A gilded cage of cardboard and hubris.
11:48 a.m. - 2017-05-01
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Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
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