Pretending to be lost behind rotting, wealthy neighborhoods. Tracking hoofprints in a minor wetlands preserve. The sanctity of late night loneliness. A full and grinning moon as a tiny sun. Face wind-burned from the illusion of chilliness. At the end of the trail, a gnarled tree. Bent, leafless and drooping. Framed by a silver-gilded halo. Not a single zombie to be seen for hours.
9:13 a.m. - 2019-10-16
Recent entries:
Some Advice - 2019-10-30
Librum Infinitum - 2019-10-30
Locomotions - 2019-10-23
Some Fall Moments - 2019-10-23
That Blessed Arrangement - 2019-10-16
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