Visiting the edge of a tiny copse-turned-forest. I turned my frustrations loose in the wilderness many months ago. No amount of dirty and sifted-handfuls can bury it. Contempt living rent-free, just inside my throat. Dreaming of filthy round bunnies as a solution for the same problem, presented one hundred-dozen times. Imaginary royalty as a mediocre consolation prize. Meanwhile, missed music mixes itself in an adjacent universe. I just need to retire. From this life. And find another, quieter alcoholism.
5:09 p.m. - 2021-08-20
Recent entries:
A Confluence of Names - 2021-09-10
Evaporation of Direction - 2021-09-10
Delta Go-Around - 2021-09-03
Soap-stuck shadows - 2021-08-27
The Beginning of a Return to Choking - 2021-08-27
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