A broken latch inside a busted brain. Like nonchalantly flipping a light switch for a nearly-burnt out bulb with a microfiber filament. Garish halogen flickering between the temples. Like walking into a seedy back alley adult shop. The epileptic shadowcasting highlights the questionable legality of the wares. To examine them with bare hands is inviting shame and disgust. But sometimes, tiny blonde hands reach for the illumination, and nothing happens at all. The room is empty. The skin-merchants absconded and rescheduled on the sly.
10:08 p.m. - 2019-02-20
Recent entries:
Difficulties at Eleven - 2019-02-27
Heart Transplant - 2019-02-27
Sashaying Children - 2019-02-27
A Termination - 2019-02-27
The Lies of No Strings - 2019-02-20
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