Crates of not-even-old vinyl stolen from forgotten yesterdays. The static of rusted plastic headphones, and the pinprick of needles. Learning the frequency of boxiness by cloudy evenings. Playing Cranberries' Linger in minor key, twelve-dozen times, and listening for the phrase I missed in my youth that would have explained everything. I'm twenty years old again, made of optimistic arpeggios and inexperienced hubris. My hands frozen in the snowflake moonlight. Grasping at old amplitude harmonics as all rhythm dissolves from my veins.
2:51 p.m. - 2021-02-11
Recent entries:
A Slow Mend - 2021-03-03
A Misleading Name - 2021-02-25
Pristine Pockets - 2021-02-25
Jest and Beckonings - 2021-02-18
Maybe Keep a Notebook - 2021-02-18
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