Round two of synthetic opulence. Psychological satiety mortared into every shiny brick and warming light. Not a change of background, but of company. Dragging the home life four hundred miles to watch it die on a doorstep. The under-furnished and antiseptic stink of thousands of missing bodies. A setting sun on tiny changes. After a while, the eyes don't remember the memories. The settling of neuroplasticity in rigidity. Despite new ink-work between the temples and behind the eyes. The great and terrible epiphany that sometimes the memories are more real than the present. More honest. More as the way it should be.
The long, quiet drive home.
11:24 p.m. - 2018-11-05
Recent entries:
Little Left to Give - 2018-11-26
Sculptatrix - 2018-11-19
Off-kilter - 2018-11-19
Great Works - 2018-11-13
Sticky Wicket - 2018-11-12
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