Newly locked doors in an old, abandoned house. Inside, the spidery tapping of a ticker-tape reader. Or perhaps an antique seismograph. Telling familiar fabrications in the same staccato phrases. The confusion of two intimate strangers. Solipsist misunderstanding as their shared language. It should be no surprise; a cheap brass Kwikset latch struggles to keep out the memories. Even without steady hands and a rake-and-pin outside.
10:44 p.m. - 2019-05-13
Recent entries:
Hollow Repose - 2019-05-29
Springwaters - 2019-05-29
What Should Have Been Pleasant - 2019-05-22
Unruinable - 2019-05-22
Putrescent Promises - 2019-05-13
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