Unexpected rain from a horizon filthy with indigo. Washing my hands with cloud grease and dead optimism. Ribbons of color framed by the death of the afternoon. Visiting me from a distance, for a little while, and dispersing with the sunlight. A thickening breeze whispers the names of not forgotten lovers. Turning in for the evening with a handful of purple pills, and the old, handwritten journals of strangers. Every spiral notebook kills off another part of the aging me, in the exalted, Taoist way. The silence of rainlessness is opens for tonight's aria of dreams.
4:12 p.m. - 2021-05-26
Recent entries:
The Messiness of Silence - 2021-06-11
Of Little Breeze - 2021-06-11
Disgust of 'Neurosexism' - 2021-06-04
A Changed Ravine - 2021-06-04
Silver Afternoon - 2021-05-26
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