Feelings etched onto mirrors, thousands of pages long. But we aren't reading about Them. We're reading about Us. Entry after entry always ends up being about Eyes. Comparing sand to snow, and sleep to agency. Pretending love looks like perfection, which is to say, stagnation. Yearning wistfully to have again the things we never had in the first place. We never learned to discard the pacifier. It just changed shape and size and flavor.
3:30 p.m. - 2020-12-16
Recent entries:
Antipacifism - 2021-01-04
Evening Glories - 2020-12-31
Hangboard - 2020-12-31
Merry Happiness - 2020-12-23
Sorry, Songbird - 2020-12-23
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