Tepid breeze warms a weekend of biohazards. Rusted plastic routine flakes under scrutiny. Stability is closer to vinegar than honey, when luring an orphaned whore. The world falls away at night, during lapses of certainty. Slate and clamshell stones are a slow epiphany. It waits while I sort through broken bones and mouldering memories.
12:19 p.m. - 2017-06-19
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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