Always out of reach, she only visits in my dreams. She leaves plain brown lunch sack for me, on a porch that isn't mine. Stained with vitriol, full of clockwork fruit. Handwritten notes with tabs of disdain. Delicate penmanship referencing my brain full of zeros. Too many envelopes. Too full of rage. The slow choking of midlife existentialism forces me awake. I check old newspapers in the morning for one of our obituaries. It's hard to tell whether the feeling of helplessness follows me from my dreams into waking, or the other way around.
11:33 p.m. - 2020-09-30
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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