Ignoring the telltale scratches on a full dance card. The scratches in the margins read "A Familiar Vice". The back of the mouth tastes like cortisol and sub-optimal decisions. And still, the shirking of responsibilities for impromptu trips into the wilderness. Out of season fires fueling the skies. Executing the same script for the seven hundredth time. With the mechanical precision of biology. Re-affirmation comes from the touch of desperate mouths. Left behind, and unsatiated, at the end of a wretched dirt road.
7:21 p.m. - 2019-05-04
Recent entries:
Too Esoteric - 2019-05-13
Puzzle Metaphor - 2019-05-08
CoMeIn - 2019-05-08
Of Bees - 2019-05-04
Interrupted Interpersonals - 2019-05-04
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