Pulled as taut as taffy across a week of moving mouths. Routine held in quiescence, in error, for the sake of reinforcing foreign mouths with words. Feeling the static of dissonant guilt somewhere below the lungs. The shame as a layer of sealant, not frosting. Trap-shot techniques to ameliorate the disdain that is inevitable in this culture predicted by geniuses. In the background, over the frequency of old radios, Watts lectures on old solutions even more relevant now than ever. And so, the studiousness of routine. And the unpleasantness of explaining unavailability to the sub-optimal.
11:42 p.m. - 2019-03-25
Recent entries:
Pulling Syrah - 2019-04-10
While Away - 2019-04-10
Mixjumble - 2019-04-02
Lotus Falling Down - 2019-04-02
Minor Earned Indulgence - 2019-04-02
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