Dreaming of a life stuffed into a hyperlight bag. Living in the dog-eared pages on the edge of society. Every conversation with a zombie is another scale grafted to the back of my hands. Seeking out the texts of dead philosophers. Scratching at the old puzzle of existentialism in the short, gray hours. Having to read, and re-read, and re-read again the words that stand out against the omnipresent static. Quietly etching values into the shrinking space in my head. Even as the propaganda machine of 1984 continues to try and drain the abscess and turn me into an organ donor.
5:00 p.m. - 2020-10-15
Recent entries:
Merry Happiness - 2020-12-23
Sorry, Songbird - 2020-12-23
Worldly Dairyfarm - 2020-12-16
The Oxidization of Life - 2020-12-16
Playing with playthings - 2020-12-09
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