Hemorrhaging sanity the day before tomorrow. Watching people who watch other people who watch for signs of volatile smiles. Like an Escher painting, splashed in nonsense arrows on a filthy canvas of playgrounds. Black Monday shouts all in unison, all the way down, from the four amygdal corners. A few hours of imaginary table talk at the cost of a lifetime of labor. The resilience of comradie cheapened by late-night whisky and the synthesis of community. Defer to a higher authority-- to the god of your god, the one dressed in the immaculate tie and vest-- for absolution. The Matrix preserves itself.
3:54 p.m. - 2021-02-04
Recent entries:
Pristine Pockets - 2021-02-25
Jest and Beckonings - 2021-02-18
Maybe Keep a Notebook - 2021-02-18
Under-fused - 2021-02-11
Underaged Culture - 2021-02-04
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