se7enchance

Too Many Inane Words


Quiet Wednesday mornings in an ossified city of old money. The river growing colder before the sun is tucked away behind the clouds of fall. Tiny, needy wake-waves lapping at littered shores. Dreams held in the abeyance of banality. Again. The insidiousness of old age, hiding in plain sight-inevitability. I frown at an empty space, occupied by premature youth. This week is just reconstituted fairy tales. Pureed and spread thick across American mercantilism hobbyist zombies.

9:41 a.m. - 2019-10-02

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Recent entries:
That Blessed Arrangement - 2019-10-16
Silvertree - 2019-10-16
Shady Lady Fading - 2019-10-10
Fettered Fidgeting - 2019-10-09
Diminished Siblings - 2019-10-04


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