Digging through mountains of books for instructions of aging. Maturing gracefully is all but a lost art form. Like conversation with strangers. A discipline overlooked and undervalued. Returning to youthful nostalgias is teaching me-- in great, choking gulps-- that I still carry the same fears with me now as I did then. I feel like decades old larva. Underdeveloped and wriggling aimlessly. The framing is a little better. Like an expensive mounting for a child's refrigerator painting. But that's to be expected. When all we have for brains are half-evolved, reptilian delusion-generating machines. Held together by the fragility of echoes and hexagonal painters tape. I need to move to Tibet.
1:27 p.m. - 2020-02-12
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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