I drive along empty streets to the music of slum derelicts. The zombies of the world in a drunken stupor from last night's Bacchanalia. Grey buildings, muted skies. There's no one else in the entire city. I settle again into cold, familiar loneliness. Discipline and routine, old companions. There is no more time to grieve over the death of dolls. The call of zombies beckons the willfully deaf. The mobs swallows the emotionally lazy.
I drive on.
12:04 p.m. - 2018-01-01
Recent entries:
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
Summerscorch - 2018-07-02
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Elliptical - 2018-06-25
Back and Callback - 2018-06-18
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