Returning from the graves of family I never met. Hands scarlet from frostbite, fingernails split black from the digging. It's the only way to know who I'm talking to. Conversations with memories, and sleek ivory curves. A valley of unmarked granite and uncanny whispers. The insistent staccato of hail on concrete and metal. A new soundtrack for this year. Better than labored mask-breathing, I guess.
2:06 p.m. - 2021-03-11
Recent entries:
Been A While - 2021-03-31
Ghost Sting - 2021-03-25
The Illusion of Authority - 2021-03-17
There Was Never Anything - 2021-03-17
From Across the Oceans - 2021-03-17
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