Travelling uncounted miles to leave dead roses on a doorstep. Returning after months abroad to home surgery. Stainless steel tables besmirched with aborted memories. Digging around with the delicacy of a claw hammer. Bludgeon-trauma erasure, sudden enough to make the whole world silent. With some time, the dried flower petals on the floor will wash out from the fluorescence. And after a little more, everything will be rinsed away by the pressure-wash of dementia. It is inevitable.
10:31 p.m. - 2019-02-27
Recent entries:
On the Way Up - 2019-03-16
Continue? - 2019-03-05
Alliteration Capacity - 2019-03-05
She Shant - 2019-03-04
Difficulties at Eleven - 2019-02-27
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