Saturated dreams at One in the Afternoon. There's never sufficient time to harvest enough sleep. The space between the clouds inside my head clenches like an orgasm. Inside the blast shelter, I scribble notes to my past self in badly-curated cursive. My shadow disconnects from my heels a tiny rip at a time. Apathy stays my attempts at re-association. The anniversary of a nightmare looms somewhere nearby, in the ether of tomorrows. I asphyxiate my hope in advance, to make the terror less bright.
9:44 a.m. - 2019-09-11
Recent entries:
Too Many Inane Words - 2019-10-02
Brain Bruises - 2019-09-26
Cosmetically Made - 2019-09-26
Apple and Seed - 2019-09-18
Comparative Travels - 2019-09-18
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