Screaming peacocks drowning out the glow of lambs. Stars reflected in the mud. The aloneness of weeks without seeing the face of Sunday. A dozen days of static interrupted by prerecorded broadcasts. Waking up in the afternoons, with hands dusted with dog hair. Discarded cardboard hygiene cut into boxes to space out the filth. Panning for gold in someone else's forgetfulness. One hundred-thousands of ideas, divvied up into scores and scores of hours, locked in a cellar. Learning about a stranger, and their loneliness, sixty images at a time. And holding the discomfort of understanding inside a clenched and calloused fist.
3:45 p.m. - 2021-07-10
Recent entries:
Welcome Back Spasm - 2021-07-21
Maybe Just Shut Your Fucking Mouth - 2021-07-15
When Learning Becomes Confirmation - 2021-07-15
Duracell for Life - 2021-07-15
As An Easy Gallop Upwards - 2021-07-10
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