Pale hands in the half-dark. Strong and no-nonsense; experienced and middle-aged. Sunday dreams in the amygdala. Disappearing into the ether of broken concentration. Silver-fern earrings standing out in a wall of text. Answers in the un-jade ribs that have to be read aloud. Watching deteriorating footage of John Doe's meticulous attention to detail. A lack of exceptionalism in the missing fingertips. I see the parts of myself hung up on the whorls. Regrettably, if I'm typing it, it's for me.
4:34 p.m. - 2021-07-15
Recent entries:
Only Two Feet - 2021-08-06
No Mystery Here - 2021-07-29
A Sanctuary on High - 2021-07-29
A Shell House - 2021-07-21
Welcome Back Spasm - 2021-07-21
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