Unmarked trails in the El Dorado hills. Alleged waterfalls that exist only as a rumor. Seasons of life written in recessed shore-circles. Adding beaten skate-shoe steps to a dozen other wild footprints. Sun-bleached jawbones buried beneath an ocean of seeds. Discarded zombie trash as a testament to the pinnacle of their half-lived lives. A raft of brown ducks, paddling without progress, and without concern. A hand-built hut hidden in plain site. Built of driftwood and patience, and existing somewhere between authentic and disquieting. With eyes closed and with mental snapshots as the backdrop, maybe this is another place of existence.
11:23 p.m. - 2018-10-29
Recent entries:
Off-kilter - 2018-11-19
Great Works - 2018-11-13
Sticky Wicket - 2018-11-12
Mandated Reunions - 2018-11-05
One Hundred Thousand Taps - 2018-11-05
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