Misshapen cotton clouds of raspberry rubbing alcohol. Hiding ill-gotten gains away from the world in wrinkled black bags. I crawl into a nest-shaped hole and hide until the stars die. A sickness of many circles shining wan light on broken brains. Daydreaming about evenings in my old studio flat. Alone with a trickle of attention and squawking hardline connections. Somewhere in the infinity of weeks, the mute realization of missed thankfulness. The collateral of aging in opulence.
12:26 p.m. - 2021-12-03
Recent entries:
Unhelixed Deoxyribonucleics - 2021-12-17
Unmade Choices - 2021-12-17
Terrification Theory - 2021-12-10
A Clinician's Note - 2021-12-10
Crushed Columns - 2021-12-03
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