Handwritten cards written in evening ink. The obligation of gratitude fits uncomfortably, like a new-and-badly tailored suit. Stale words record-skipping on the cardstock. Intent scratched in morse code-ink spots, and trailing off into automated apathy. Self-diagnosis is usually ill-advised, but sometimes it's painfully plain. Emotions become dreams that don't fully fade upon waking. Being thankful by reflex the way a seed pod dies.
10:24 a.m. - 2018-11-26
Recent entries:
End of a Tiny Epoch - 2018-12-10
Giving Hedonism - 2018-12-10
Repetition Callouses - 2018-12-04
Rutted Grooves - 2018-12-04
Inhibitors - 2018-11-26
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