The romance of imagined flawlessness, hidden between every letter. A lack of question marks flanking countless eyes. I take a deep breath, and another sip of cyanide. Both free at the corner drugstore. Mailing away ungrayed photos to strangers in the Eastern Bloc. Fishing for a few minutes, every day, in oceans of skepticism. Using a plain, ungilded hook, and pretend disaffectation. This way, I can protect myself from disappointment while still participating in it with abandon. I haven't eaten anything caught in months. I don't even like fish. The letters I mail away are always returned, addressed to someone else.
4:41 p.m. - 2021-06-24
Recent entries:
Duracell for Life - 2021-07-15
As An Easy Gallop Upwards - 2021-07-10
Twenty Thousand Plus - 2021-07-10
When Four Means Less Than Nothing - 2021-07-10
An Education with Fused Bowls of Blood - 2021-06-24
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