The rage of belated readings on a banal afternoon. Built from ego and mortared with spit. Rinsed into regret by a week of weak drizzle. A life of mediocrity spread thin across missing gravel. The last handful of caffeine pills scavenged from dead futures. Nosebleeds preferable to the tick-tock clocks of zombies. Either way, it's all fucked up. Someone, ask god to send the solar flare, yesterday.
1:38 p.m. - 2021-11-12
Recent entries:
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
Unstopperism - 2021-11-12
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