Charcoal cobwebs in the corner as kept company. The low-light of candles lighting lonely hallways late into the night. Unwarmed water and unheated stoves. Showering in the scaldingly cold rain pumped from a well of first-world sorrows. Leaving before the strangers arriving. Walking for hours and hours along the blast-remains of a Central California trail. Unwritten haikus plucked from the scenery and carried home in a fake-buckle satchel. The words join the spider-strands as the primary defense against the hexagonal desolation.

11:26 p.m. - 2019-05-22