Preparing for the end of the world. One self-indulgent page at a time. Windlass traps and hawthorn leather. Committing entrail-paths to memory. Chiseling out tongues of the California Complex fires. I drill holes in my hand to lighten the weight of my life. My partial-brother sends me a message. We've not spoken in years. My mouth is broken. I'm beginning to realize that I don't know how to talk to people, any more. The crushing paralysis of loneliness. Woven as filigree spiderwebs behind every door.
11:23 p.m. - 2020-09-02
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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