A week of infinite months every few days. An incurable drowsiness in the middle of the day. The creak of concrete and the wind-ripple of rags. Bedding down in a quiet nest of wharf-tainted filth. Sweating in the quiet of broken strobelights. Impatient and paint-chipped fingernails tap out an unheard invitation. Rinsing away suffocation in the warmth of sewage runoff, as the stars hide behind one another in shame. Cardboard trellises and plastic wire ramparts as the church for discarded gods.
5:08 p.m. - 2021-04-22
Recent entries:
Neon Horizon - 2021-05-13
Tepidly Warm Loftiness - 2021-05-13
Self-preservationalism - 2021-05-05
Too Few Raindrops - 2021-04-29
Closed For Summer - 2021-04-29
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