Thursday evening admonishments for weekends of champagne. A flurry of demands in the guise of heart-shaped faces. Carried by muscle memory through the upright nights. The absence of joy when there is no tasting of Sundays. A triptych of canvases that demand white ink. I'm losing a piece of myself, somewhere in the quiet mornings of solitude. My life thinning out like wine in fine, tilted stemware. Maybe alcoholism is the inevitable solution, waiting at the end of my life.
4:29 p.m. - 2021-09-10
Recent entries:
Holes Only Lead Downward - 2021-09-22
The Uncertainty of Coal - 2021-09-22
Mostly Unbroken Repetition - 2021-09-17
Still Sadly, The Process - 2021-09-17
As An Easy Gallop Upwards - 2021-07-10
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