The staccato whip of days against a synthetic backdrop of concrete and pixels and greasy cloud-smears. The low murmur of adult negotiations between extended adolescents. Parleying one evening into another, with only a change of cast. The self-conscious squelching of anxiety masks the dripping of tears. Eventually the pale-skin parade concludes, without climax. The cold finally ripples through the California valley. A wraith come to breathe the ashen dreams left from months prior. Hollow bones marrow-laced with frost, and not from the weather.
11:51 p.m. - 2019-02-11
Recent entries:
To Speak Easily - 2019-02-20
Pauper's Grave - 2019-02-20
Pause For A Moment - 2019-02-14
Too Blessed - 2019-02-12
Applewords - 2019-02-12
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