Discovering a vanilla-stained overshirt in the attic leads to self-torture in the early afternoon. Routinely searching old and burnt out haunts for signs. Footprints of visitation, or fungi of new life. Bones disappear from thick winter grass. My rewards are pale skin, a pair of abused lips, and heart-nausea. I record everything by hand. Writing tiny, meticulous letters in a battered notebook. I sip tea and re-read the words by candlelight in the evening. A thousand times, until the cherry blossom bitterness becomes Zen.
10:20 a.m. - 2018-02-19
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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