Clockwork California fires in early July. Burnt orange clouds that smell of ashes from hundreds of miles away. Hard-earned tans from the reflections of melting concrete. A collective lack of enthusiasm for nationalist anniversaries. Emotional design and adaptive unconsciousness writ large in twenty-two point font. Pinpoint focus on each single bead of sweat. A perfect droplet of meditative zen of which it is a shame to speak.
12:19 p.m. - 2018-07-02
Recent entries:
Purple Crown - 2018-07-16
Empty Stars - 2018-07-09
Shifting Dimes - 2018-07-09
Deep Quills - 2018-07-09
Tossi Propter - 2018-07-02
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