Knee-sitting on an old, mud-stained pillow. Eyes shielded from lunar luminescence by the hood of a ratty sweatshirt. The pleasant fantasy of imagining hundreds of others, viewing the same super pink moon. A willow tree weeps happily. And over the days, the grass reaches up to comfort it. There are no clouds against the midnight blue. Just the whisper of absentee stars. One missing murmur for every person that was ever important to me.
7:55 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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