A little more of the inevitable glacier, revealed. Week-old-words as the glimmering harbinger of deeper meanings. Short exchanges pulled from crystal-packaged phrases. Hope trying to bloom from slick glass tombs; neutralized with jaded familiarity and a wiser caution. Her memories are buried there, along with her voice. Inside that great glass coffin centered in an aging and blanched heart. It's strings stained black from dozens of careless fingers pricked. Everything is clear when the skies are cloudless on one half of the earth. The scorpion sleeps. The frog does not.
12:12 a.m. - 2019-06-06
Recent entries:
New Halves - 2019-06-29
Lotuslace Trials - 2019-06-18
Blister of the Blissed - 2019-06-17
A Summer Sunday Scene - 2019-06-10
Displaced - 2019-06-10
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