Knuckles still crooked from the last mangling, I dig out the old heartgrinder. Not even shelved long enough to collect a layer of dust. Fully automated liquidization of irrationally reasonable expectations. Smooth, chrome curves shining dully-- complicitly-- in the evening lamplight. The evening outside hiccups beneath strangled stars. I look for a ventricle that isn't laced with the white scars of despair. Like a lifelong heroin addict, there's little hope left. Every vein collapsed in the pursuit of fleeing the world. I run a fleshy bit of aorta through the machine, anyway. Crushing another droplet of idealism into disappointment. And cynicism for the entirety of the human race.
11:16 p.m. - 2020-07-08
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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