Planting dead lotus seeds in gray fallow fields. Daily waterings of quiet. Handfuls of fertilizer curiosity. Inevitable blooming amidst an acre of weeds. Fed by the light of the stars, and the push-me-pull-you of the moon. A thin layer of clouds stretched into a sheet of soft illumination. The quick creeping of returned rot held in abeyance by punctuated sibilants. Tying neotenous branches into twisted shapes with pink ribbons and strips of old sweatshirt. One tree, tended for decades, for a moment of perfectly imperfect fruit.
8:15 p.m. - 2020-05-06
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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