Afternoon debates with a young man about the linearity of time. His brain is broken-- time is an abstraction, like an inch, or a chapter. The same delineation on which trysts are strung. Like a cheap popcorn laurel. Rapid-fire ingestion of validation. Feeding a differently busted pre-frontal cortex. It's all just an elaborate pairbonding game, dressed up in afterthought concrete and legal addendums, and called civilization. What should be a deluge of joy is only a trickle of contentment. Plainly evident signs of transmutation into the archetypal Hollywood B-romance villain. It would be depressing if it wasn't all so meaningless.
12:55 a.m. - 2019-01-29
Recent entries:
Applewords - 2019-02-12
Lich-like - 2019-02-11
Neotenous Switchback - 2019-02-05
A Short Complicity - 2019-02-05
Mimi's Greenhouse - 2019-01-29
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