An afternoon without dessert; a Sunday without a Sundae. A stretch of dark afternoon spent in a fallout shelter already occupied by guilt. Low-light hides the blood-stains almost as well as confirmation bias does. Seven hours of company that looks like a sine wave, and tastes like a lotus. Another expression of obligation and routine carried on the back of a Zen Circle tattoo. Dovetailed into headaches, and the violent vibration of an evening. Dark bruises in the shape of suspicious mouths. Frequency illusion examined out of the corner of an eye. No business looking. The same as the theft from the shadows, for payments unlevied.
10:37 p.m. - 2019-04-02
Recent entries:
Pines and Needling - 2019-05-04
Claimed Ruination - 2019-04-24
Insufficient Words* - 2019-04-24
Pulling Syrah - 2019-04-10
While Away - 2019-04-10
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