The decline of pursuits in the invisible space between claims. Wrinkled noses and empty queues. At some point, Sundays and maladaption become nostalgia. Unpacking my spare time from a box labeled "lust", and onto a shelf labeled "porn". From consumption to disregard to creation. Finding a broken nose as the fallout of bioengineered sickness. Or maybe it's the neotenous bloom of a sixth sense. The scent of offal blindness, faint but persistent; random and demanding my attention. A reminder of varnished suffering.

3:08 p.m. - 2021-10-01