The red tides of gypsies assuage weekend obligation. I instead spend an hour in a dimly-lit room with a Ukrainian woman. Speaking broken Russian-- and English-- to one another. Early evening fog rolling into the room from an open window brings the nostalgia of proxy-raver youth. I head home shortly after the conversation turns incomprehensible. Accounting and corruption, a dozen apologies, and a twenty dollar gratuity.
5:11 p.m. - 2018-02-26
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
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Nicim
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern
Star-Brite
Swallowthkey
ATwoWayDream
HumHum
Secret-motel
AndWeBreathe
MovingSands
WeAteTheSea