It's difficult to say whether the static of a broken television is better than silence. Sifting through half-a-hundred sealed hypodermic needles thoughtlessly while waiting for sundaes. I pass out with wrists that smell of high tides. I dream of a heavily tattooed blonde women. Crooked smile on an obscene mouth. In the dream, the needles pierce her nipples easily. There is no blood. She sits with quiet complacence. We fall asleep together in an old, empty spa. The white noise of the television follows us. This was all that there was.
9:34 a.m. - 2019-09-04
Recent entries:
Brain Bruises - 2019-09-26
Cosmetically Made - 2019-09-26
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Comparative Travels - 2019-09-18
Terrorbright - 2019-09-11
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