The creeping corrosion of full lungs. The weekend racing the illness. No argument brooked from the feeble pleas of an arthritic husk. Dragging around a besmirched head, attached to a worthless shell. The gentle ministrations of nightingales. Tiny plastic medicine cups scattered across the counter like petals from something obscene and synthetic. Viral-biological sensory deprivation, turned up to Eleven. Weakness gilding the bones. The immense gratitude of vulnerability, drawn out by blonde lips, salted cucumbers, and tiny dark chocolate sins.
11:21 p.m. - 2019-01-17
Recent entries:
Punchcard - 2019-01-29
Bio-Turncoat - 2019-01-29
Ballast And Magnification - 2019-01-21
Bi-Conflicted - 2019-01-21
Late, and Then Never - 2019-01-17
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