Reading unread nonsense at 2am. The babble of juvenescence from the mouth of mothers. Wine bottles strewn about drunkenly in abandoned school parking lots. Wanting nothing more than to seal the blast door on the bomb shelter and sleep until termination. Trying to strangle an infinity of knockings with conjured illnesses. In the quiet hours of the evening, assembling an old puzzle by candle light. The pieces are battered and familiar. There is no master picture. It is repetitive, and well-made, and boring. And provides the great illusion of feeling so clever, despite being a fantastic waste of time.
11:52 p.m. - 2019-05-08
Recent entries:
Springwaters - 2019-05-29
What Should Have Been Pleasant - 2019-05-22
Unruinable - 2019-05-22
Putrescent Promises - 2019-05-13
Too Esoteric - 2019-05-13
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