Lightning storms in one-hundred plus evenings. Red peals stitching the distant void. A still and scattered rain. A callous sun, still hours from the horizon, as a mythic orange amoeba against a stained grey sky. Everything is washed out, like picture-static on an old tube television. Sagging glass and oxidized metals, gilded with heavy layers of ash. Entire verdant basins become a facsimile of snow. Summer cremating livelihoods for hundreds and thousands of acres. I have trouble breathing through the cinders. Incinerated dreams that have traveled hundreds of miles. Swallowed by blind and aging lungs. Zero percent contained. Maybe one hundred percent inevitable.
11:31 p.m. - 2020-08-19
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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