Quiet pixelated forests with teal latticework. One thousand and thirty four bladed Dryopteridaceae. Reading a story, printed elegantly across every leaf. Watered with the runoff tears of twilight snowmelt. Everyone fancies themselves a botanist when they touch fragile leaves. There's a subdued song that vibrates in the stems. The joy of mourning. A voyeur's cartography. The privilege of careful attention. Everything has a ritual; anything that isn't silence, is annexation. Swords have no eyes.
1:03 a.m. - 2019-01-29
Recent entries:
Too Blessed - 2019-02-12
Applewords - 2019-02-12
Lich-like - 2019-02-11
Neotenous Switchback - 2019-02-05
A Short Complicity - 2019-02-05
My profile
Archives
Notes
Diaryland
Random
RSS
others:
As-I-know-it
Swallowthkey
Star-Brite
HumHum
ATwoWayDream
Nicim
MovingSands
AndWeBreathe
WeAteTheSea
Secret-motel
Breathe-Salt
Swordfern