I drizzle salt on a seedling garden of coffee grounds and eggshells. The photosynthetics are crooked and ill, stunted and seeping, and growing awkwardly toward the shade. I water them with storm drain runoff and sludge fertilizer. My hands stain black from guilt. The yard behind my house is overgrown with fallout and willow leaves. The inane is one immense, ubiquitous blob within my temples.
12:14 p.m. - 2017-09-11
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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