A dead suburban tract in the early evening. Encircling a tiny wetlands preserve, like an afterthought. Now rife with explosive vegetation. A solitary millipede scuttles across ruptured concrete. Away from the nighttime shadows spilling from a low blood moon. Peering in the windows of abandoned cars, one at a time. Looking for something. Anything. A single, unscuffed children's shoe atop a rusted electrical box. Preserved by a thick layer of pollen and dust. The old story comes unbidden, and follows me for hours, into sleep: "For sale: Baby shoes, never worn".
12:54 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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