Sprinting to the starting line of yesterday. A race to the bottom of the brain stem, starring everyone. Eyes white from filament overexposure. Milky pupils tint the whole world seven shades of black. A generally accepted pressure in the ribcage slows a withering heart. That's the weight of a broken world pushing outward. Upward. Realizing every ordinary exhalation is the sublime and unnoticed death of a dream. And so, we pack our heads full of vinyl and plastic to fill the god-shaped holes in our heart.
5:12 p.m. - 2021-11-24
Recent entries:
A Clinician's Note - 2021-12-10
Crushed Columns - 2021-12-03
Haziness At Eight - 2021-12-03
A Weekend Before The Not End - 2021-11-24
Some Words of Alone - 2021-11-24
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