Bandsaw consonants slowing into silence. Rain-rusted wooden doors closed against curiosity. The tiny-baby tapping of raindrops on a grimy window. Infrequent visitors the past few years. Dangling participle cobwebs nudged by the barest of breaths. The work continues, a quiet and solitary joy. Chiseling increasingly gnarled epistles from gnarled wood with increasingly gnarled hands. Everything ages, and time passes.
4:19 p.m. - 2021-04-29
Recent entries:
Soiree of Delusion - 2021-05-20
Neon Horizon - 2021-05-13
Tepidly Warm Loftiness - 2021-05-13
Self-preservationalism - 2021-05-05
Too Few Raindrops - 2021-04-29
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