Refilling a bloodrinker quill with runoff from desiccated veins. It stings of nettles and resignment. Three hundred haiku, scratched into being under low-light. Stuffed into a corner where no one will read. Chipping away at a stack of lignin-scented Latin texts. Epictetus, Aurelius, Cicero all fit awkwardly inside an aging mouth. And yet. Satisfaction wrung from arid texts that turn into brainblisters. The perspiration of perspicacity. Words Mean Things.
11:52 a.m. - 2019-10-30
Recent entries:
Councilhymns - 2019-11-13
Another Broken Trip - 2019-11-06
Purple Glass Facets - 2019-11-06
Flat Sine WaVE - 2019-11-06
Some Advice - 2019-10-30
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