The days tumble by. Suspiciously short weekends. With a conspicuous hole where the Sundays should be. The heat permeates the walls and the days. California has been slower to raze itself into ash, this year. The irony of masks without greasy gray skies. Late evenings with a dog-eared copy of Meditations. The gloss on the cover long scrubbed away by callouses. Decades of stubbornly stretching out brittle tendons. Ostensibly, it all compiles into rigor mortis. But the important part are the memories that cannot ever be truly shared.
11:43 p.m. - 2020-07-22
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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