Nyckelharpa memories of the games we played as children. Sipping at nostalgia with a broken tongue. Sprinting into sleep on sloppy petals of diphenhydramine. Fetal position in the filthy rat's nest for days at a time. The sunrise reminder of bone-jarring, viral achiness. The time sieves between the lines of impromptu naps, and feverishly-scratched letters. Living through holes in history; the revisions of 1984; small tears at the corner of my life. I am grateful I am ill enough to become well again.
11:30 p.m. - 2021-09-03
Recent entries:
Mostly Unbroken Repetition - 2021-09-17
Still Sadly, The Process - 2021-09-17
As An Easy Gallop Upwards - 2021-07-10
A Confluence of Names - 2021-09-10
Evaporation of Direction - 2021-09-10
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