One minute after midnight. A messy mix of meaningless monikers, framed in a pocket of hours. Each name a portal to a mind, cracked and sieved. Anecdotes are plentiful, grown in the verdant black space of narcissism. There is no wanting for the watering of regurgitation. Low-hanging fruit that tastes of bland and fermented opinions. So very many eyes in the margins of the pages. But there is no trespassing in a land lacking locks. Even children do their best to speak the same language when their world consists solely of wooden blocks.
12:01 a.m. - 2019-02-12
Recent entries:
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
Too Blessed - 2019-02-12
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