Diluting my life with fantasies of alcoholism. The tepid light of late mornings are the slowly closing curtain of middle-age. Unsoftenable jade eyes and petroleum for blood. Sometimes late in the evenings, I dream of building a willow tree forest. Or bidding farewell to the ribbons of ego. Every single day has been spectacularly fine. Enough. Trying to write praise about myself in the margins of my life, I find there's lots and lots of room. The only words that don't cling to the pen are redundant criticisms. Critical redundancies. The same critique over and over.
5:04 p.m. - 2021-11-12
Recent entries:
A Weekend Before The Not End - 2021-11-24
Some Words of Alone - 2021-11-24
Jigsaw Loss - 2021-11-24
The Rear of the Den - 2021-11-18
Not Short, In Short - 2021-11-18
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