Baby steps cut from alphabets. The slow compiling of mental notes for unwritten novels. The goal is to turn one hundred thousand observations into something people give a damn about. But it's like trying to switch gears with a broken transmission. And this rut goes on the down the road for such a very long way. Worn grooves in the mud from countless other failures to launch. A fold in the skyline, flecked with the grounded stars of city lights, where the successful and actualized all live and play. A fixed and unreachable point on the horizon, while stranded beside the backwater corn field of one's own mind.
10:39 a.m. - 2018-12-04
Recent entries:
Re-up - 2018-12-20
Marionetta Fin - 2018-12-17
End of a Tiny Epoch - 2018-12-10
Giving Hedonism - 2018-12-10
Repetition Callouses - 2018-12-04
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