Watching the quivering bottom lip of candlelight with half-lidded eyes. Flickering yellow angles against the painted, milky glass of an old handmade lantern. The last remaining gift from a dead lover. Shoulders that burn from no less than one thousand tiny repetitions. The days after the Great Pause are long, and empty of vocation. The inevitable and crushing gears spitting out teethfuls of rust. Lubricated by anxiety and impatience, no one can stand the deviation from banality. This incredible moment will never have been revered, save by a very few.
10:24 p.m. - 2020-05-21
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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