I follow the footsteps of an unknown poet. He retires every evening in a secret motel, surrounded by carefully curated vinyl and the dust of ages. I try to learn to think as he does, from half-snatched gossip with himself. The stars puncture the comfort of the shadows. I return home with a few notes scribbled onto a palm, drawn with the ink of envies. Hundreds of thousands of words inside the fallout shelter. Pasted onto the holes in my life. I trace a fading tattoo with too-short fingernails. A promise poorly kept. I spread filthy blankets across the vacancy in my life and sleep through the inevitable sickness. Dreaming of a man in a new suit and hat, who passes me by without a single glance.
12:19 a.m. - 2019-07-09
Recent entries:
Petaldrops - 2019-07-22
Back Again - 2019-07-16
Back-to-back Embarrassments - 2019-07-16
Ports with an Extra O - 2019-07-15
Decaying Detritus - 2019-07-09
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