Turning the rusted key of resignation in a paper lock. The click of pixels for tumblers. Closed cinderblock doors for miles and miles, and the familiar abandonment of tattered tents. A fat squirrel regards me nonchalantly, safe at the base of his tree. I give him The Nod, and resume the extraction of thorns from a braided-rose vine. Performing careful excision with vein-lined hands in the faded sunlight. Preserving the memory of a moment of thoughtfulness.
4:48 p.m. - 2021-04-22
Recent entries:
Tepidly Warm Loftiness - 2021-05-13
Self-preservationalism - 2021-05-05
Too Few Raindrops - 2021-04-29
Closed For Summer - 2021-04-29
Last Gold Evening For A While - 2021-04-22
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