Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The bassline of squeaking swings somewhere in the distance. Breathing in the burning lungs of the Earth, half a planet away. Staring at an empty page for hours. It's not writer's block; it's apathy. I inject fresh formaldehyde into the collapsed veins in my toes. Every day spent studying the book labeled Being Alone. Every picture is an afterimage I've already read about. This is old age. Painting oneself into the corner where there isn't a single novel experience left. All that remains is Zen-levels of precognition in reading the social script. Jaded, all the way through the diaphragm, and tired all of the time.
10:36 p.m. - 2019-08-23
Recent entries:
Terrorbright - 2019-09-11
Clinically Septic - 2019-09-04
The Inevitable Disappointment in Affections - 2019-09-04
Woundsburg - 2019-09-04
Utter Dissatisfaction - 2019-08-27
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