A pair of mourning doves trilling as they beat their wings. Distraction in their distress. My reward is the scraping away of layers of skin on low concrete walls. A lazy misstep and the scrabble before a fall. Blood wreathing my ankles and wrists. Tinting a pocket of starburst-clover with biohazardous color and gritted teeth. The inevitability of trying to outrun and outmaneuver old age. No children to bear the brunt of life-lived by proxy. And so, held accountable by soft-tissue and salt-stains. Repeat until dead.
7:17 p.m. - 2020-04-08
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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