The callouses of an old man manifest a little more, every year. Quiet evenings of routinely abandoning routine. Acknowledgement without celebration, the same way a stream rinses roots. Warm baths, held still and pressed against a paragon of Too-Good-For-Someone. Moments of infinite gratitude, incarnated in steam whorls and flickering candlelight. An evening concluded with an excess of sweets, and a dance syncopated by self-consciousness. The privilege of kissing goodbye closed eyes painted with aluminium eyeshadow. Thirty eight grossly fortunate years.
12:11 a.m. - 2019-02-12
Recent entries:
A Termination - 2019-02-27
The Lies of No Strings - 2019-02-20
To Speak Easily - 2019-02-20
Pauper's Grave - 2019-02-20
Pause For A Moment - 2019-02-14
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