Watering eyes during a muted sunrise. Insomnia sharpened by the daydreams of life in the clouds. Scented shirts from missing lovers as a reality mask. High-pitched tinnitus framing a broken ticker tape reader. Empty, crumpled envelopes flanking piles of half-sorted, worthless nostalgia. Dozens and dozens of pristine instructional books, stacked and arranged with intention. Boxes half-packed with the remains of my middle-aged life. Ready to bury in the saturated, and recently dug, holes in the backyard.
11:39 a.m. - 2021-03-11
Recent entries:
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
Uninspirational - 2021-03-11
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