Post hoc wishing for gifts ungiven. Bottles of fermented rosé champagne, carefully wrapped with trembling hands. Left opened and untouched. Make-believe dragons carved from plastic, and outgrown in a week. The months past faster than the days. Riots and explosions in the distance. One dozen formulaic but sincere notes sit delivered, without response. The beginning of a new year-- and a fresh decade-- brings a silent, rising-moon revelation. Almost everyone I love is dead.
5:30 p.m. - 2020-01-01
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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