Recording the incalculable ways to express despair. The hollowness in the lungs isn't a metaphor. It's an inevitability. Underlining every word and breath and waste. Breeding drones through dozens of decades of freedom. Memories whispering in the still afternoons. Magenta pills and melatonin for a still-laid supper. The slanted rays of a purple sun reminding of a time that has yet to occur again. That things will always be even more terrible than they already are. And things are never as awful as we thought they were.
5:21 p.m. - 2021-11-04
Recent entries:
Jigsaw Loss - 2021-11-24
The Rear of the Den - 2021-11-18
Not Short, In Short - 2021-11-18
Unstopperism - 2021-11-12
Five Musings - 2021-11-12
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