Updating mental firmware in the quiet hours before midnight. Old windows of time washed away by a new parade of zombies. Long hours spent finger-tracing the covers of books, rather than consuming them. Fetishing an infinity of unread psychology texts. As long as the words remain invisible, no one can feel like a dimwit for not understanding them. Hands grow arthritic and the dust-jackets begin to yellow long before the spine is cracked. By then, the litany of self-absolution is a groove worn too deep. No amount of diagnoses will unwind a clock.
11:15 p.m. - 2018-10-29
Recent entries:
Great Works - 2018-11-13
Sticky Wicket - 2018-11-12
Mandated Reunions - 2018-11-05
One Hundred Thousand Taps - 2018-11-05
Falling Salmon - 2018-10-29
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