The malady of social senescence stitched into orange summer clouds. The dream of retiring into the trees evaporates along with the California lakes. My tickertape reader, smashed in a fit of rage, and as a defense against the ethereal. Broken dome glass as a tattoo needle and the ink of starlight. Pressing dissolved ego lessons into cracked palms. The silence of motels as a mantra. And the memory of San Francisco as a mecca, before it was a self-inflicted, glowing crater.

5:11 p.m. - 2021-05-13