Decay in the skies, framed by half-molded clouds. Returning to visit old schoolgrounds, only to find them overrun with ants and termites. Reaching back further, into the mist of decades. Arriving, with a start, at the memory of sprained ankles and broken bicycles. Empty parking lots for a hundred years. Open doors that make wall-scaling irrelevant. The courtyards all bleached the golden brown of the inevitable California drought. The crumbling architecture looks smaller, but more complex, then it ever did as a younger man. Crushing a mud wasp's nest beneath my heel, in a petty gesture of ownership. Dozens of tiny jade beads scatter wetly across the scalding pavement. The only witness is the still and sleeping corpse of a once-beautiful finch. There is nowhere to bury him.
12:27 a.m. - 2020-04-23
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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