A half-remodeled hotel standing solitary against the sunset. Glass windows streaked with ash and halfheartedness. A rusted elevator shaft leads from a month long prologue. Calloused hands scraping against unbruised skin. Someone else's neurotic starbursts reflected in the dead light of city limits. Stuttering in the syllables. Long-missing tongue-ribbons examined in the wan light of a blood moon. A cobblestone path of overwrought words, leading to something that resembles the tiny divinity of Sunday.
5:07 p.m. - 2021-09-22
Recent entries:
A Peat Bog - 2021-10-01
Patter Son - 2021-10-01
Don't Like Very Much - 2021-10-01
A Shortfall of Coal - 2021-10-01
Holes Only Lead Downward - 2021-09-22
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