Coming up for air against the guilt of days. Un-tuned strings wrenching me into a deeper space. Slowing hands and faster days, little by little. Wincing for the privilege of shame in a heartbeat noon. Happiness as another imposter in a lifetime of masks. Sabotage as an exit strategy. And holly wreaths shoved into a square-shaped life. Scarcely long enough to be convincing. Maybe the central valley snow will finally come, and bury us up to our fettered ankles.
3:14 p.m. - 2021-12-24
Recent entries:
Noctus Mimesisamus - 2022-01-07
Grape Fruit Grain Neurosis - 2022-01-07
Slow Lung Death - 2021-12-31
The Day After Liquid - 2021-12-31
Increasingly Obvious - 2021-12-24
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