The singular solitude of being thousands of miles from the blast shelter. Too busy to miss home, or the attachment of my shadow. I sleep in an old, fancy hotel on a bed made of recycled clouds. Next door is a convention center hosting gluttony and scraped knuckles. A walkway between the two stares out over streets that stretch out into loneliness. A series of dim hallways with feeble lamplight. Walking through an indecipherable sepia gallery. Being reminded of the one visit to The Haunted Mansion as a child. The eerie stillness is a perfect pairing for populated isolation. There is nothing here for me.
9:29 a.m. - 2019-09-18
Recent entries:
Diminished Siblings - 2019-10-04
Too Many Inane Words - 2019-10-02
Brain Bruises - 2019-09-26
Cosmetically Made - 2019-09-26
Apple and Seed - 2019-09-18
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