It's an infinity of clamshell and slate glass beads. I'm learning, ever-so-slowly, that this is all there is. Different permutations on a solved formula. Etched into yellowed notebooks. Stacked wall-to-wall, with the dust and the knick-knacks and the promises of someday serenity. There is no immutable, blood-signed contract to validate the pleasant fantasy of self-told promises. Routine is just routine, and it doesn't build toward anything. It's all simply an exercise in homeostasis and egomania. Or maybe I'm not smart enough to have epiphanies of paradigm-shifting magnitude. Stuck in a morass of first-world boredom and solitude. Alone together. An embarrassment of riches.
6:27 p.m. - 2017-10-02
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Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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