A woman-shaped bottle drives hours in the heat to embrace bereavement. Fermenting emotions turn detritus into rainbow pockets of filth. Years of self-squelching as a lid. Hot water does little to loosen the hold of society and shame. The Hotel Concierge will tell anyone the same. Back home, the grieving drips outward, like a reverse IV. Near-midnight consoling as a maligned gesture of concern. Displacement in every smell and word. Ominous conclusions parlayed into a showdown the following evening. The potential inevitable conclusion to a bittersweet journey.
11:04 p.m. - 2019-06-10
Recent entries:
Old-Hair - 2019-07-09
New Halves - 2019-06-29
Lotuslace Trials - 2019-06-18
Blister of the Blissed - 2019-06-17
A Summer Sunday Scene - 2019-06-10
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