New pages spilling from a templespile. From congealed dross to a polluted trickle. Filth brushed across a dusty canvas. Nudged around until they become pages on a floor. And then slowly collected and stuffed unceremoniously into a book no one will ever read. Chronicles and epics of xenobiology and tinyfolk. Plenty of ink to be found. Never enough time is made. All the letters sent away in well-wishing, never come echoing back. Lost in orchards and oceans, like the balloons we released as children, in the hopes of finding the reciprocal hands and voices of strangers.
10:49 p.m. - 2020-03-25
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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