The divergence of paths rarely happens to the sedated. Late in the evening, I slowly shuffle around a dimly lit room. Retrieving old and yellowed pages from the floor with the forced reverence of old age. Absently tapping them against my knee to straighten them every now and again. I've never bothered to organize the mess. I wouldn't begin to know how to monetize it. There's so much trapped inside my head, and at the forefront, my illusions of competence. And the ubiquitous disdain I have for the infinity of Jarmuschian zombies.
12:13 p.m. - 2018-03-12
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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