Cultivating melanoma in the late spring. Swimming in the frigid runoff of Sierra Nevada. A warm breeze agitating the rivers in the valley. Trading a mild sunburn for the privilege of not drowning. Horsehoes built from a month of routine, laid against a well-earned tan across the shoulders. Returning home to hear the phone ringing from hundreds of yards away. The voice of authority on the other end. Nattering on in a perfectly coherent language, but speaks nigh incomprehensibility. There is no vacation remaining at the back end of this pseudo-plague.
11:16 p.m. - 2020-04-29
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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