The phone is predictably quiet. I leave dozens of imaginary messages scattered a little bit of everywhere. I don't know how many end up in the garbage. I walk across a wall on hands and toes in scorching California heat. I burn my fingers on concrete and unflagging pride. I miss my old visits to heaven. The divinity of angelic misery has gone absentee. There is no substitution.
11:01 a.m. - 2017-07-10
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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