Taking winding backroads in search of ancient masonry. The clearing reveals itself well into a tangerine afternoon, punctuated with circles. Tattered tarps flapping aridly, announcing mercantilism. Skirting pockets of duplicate junk, not even worth sifting through. Inside well-built arches, more of the same. Rows upon rows of magpie-shine, gilding countless skeletons. Hours of sifting finds only a scratched singing bowl, and a carved, chipped frog. I bury them with reverence in a dilapidated courtyard. Digging an archival pocket with my bare hands. Where they can rest free from the clutches of misers, and untouched by the radioactive sun.
11:14 p.m. - 2019-08-12
Recent entries:
Woundsburg - 2019-09-04
Utter Dissatisfaction - 2019-08-27
Apatheism - 2019-08-23
Inward Etched - 2019-08-19
Nymphaeadeath - 2019-08-19
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