Triple digit heat boiling the sidewalks to my shoes. Dirty, starred storefront glass framing the corpse of a once-vibrant poster. Thick green and black lines sunbleached into ghostly transparency. The smell of melting plastic and old VHS tapes. Acetone and vacuumed carpet perfume. I'm thirteen years old again, with five dollars and a handful change in my pocket. Just barely enough to drown my weekend with a rented video game, selected strictly for it's box art, while The Empire Strikes Back plays in the background. Pop culture having become the regrettable nostalgia of any given city.
1:49 p.m. - 2021-06-17
Recent entries:
When Four Means Less Than Nothing - 2021-07-10
An Education with Fused Bowls of Blood - 2021-06-24
Caramelization and Hail - 2021-06-24
Of Late Arrivals at Falltails - 2021-06-24
On Not Being Alone - 2021-06-17
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