Piles of plastic trees with sullied tinsel. The rot of balsam and pine cones. Acres of vaguely synthetic paper. Voices lined with resentment; it spreads like sepsis. The choice to leave, or be throttled by the fallout. So I search fog-damp vineyards for tail-dropped peacock feathers. The sour smell of fermented earth. A rusted bike keeps watch over back roads long lost to disrepair. Digging up a dirty handful of painted children's blocks. Tucking them into my messenger bag. They'll be the perfect topic of conversation this evening, talking myself into the sleep of a new year.
9:33 p.m. - 2019-12-25
Recent entries:
Thanking the Pandemonium - 2020-11-26
Simplicity of Sometimes - 2020-11-25
Bubblebeams - 2020-11-18
Red Blue Green Purple - 2020-11-11
Too Young to Descend - 2020-11-11
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