Waif-blonde knuckles rap on my cellar door. I answer to a melted puddle of cotton candy. Sticky, volatile, bittersweet insecurities. I bide my time while overgrown men starve. I sleep away mornings while hungover from shots of mediocre routine. Air rid alarms echo through my empty town. I put on my rusted tagging mask and whisper the ku-ji without a tongue.
1:59 p.m. - 2017-06-12
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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