After much preparation, dying one thousand deaths, by hands wrapped in rope. Etimasia. Crows and scorpions watching and helping. In their own way. Even in expiration there's no escape from dreams of dissatisfaction. Scores of divorced Asian women, all reeking of alcohol and insecurity. They all ask to be asked to the dance of pursuit. I know the steps, but I'm so tired. So they all leave to seek other pliant failures. Wrapping myself in the cold solace of cynicism. Burying my heart in stacks of disintegrating books. At not-so-far a distance, weariness and impatience taste the same.
12:39 a.m. - 2020-01-09
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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