Returning to dark booths and wan light. Pixelated blues highlighting inebriation and projected estrus. A magnum opus of filth. An absence of cold showers or hot baths behind an island of tainted satin sheets. An infinity of staccato giggles after midnight. Building an identity for others, so they can pretend to not be themselves. The performance has become everything. There is no art left to imitate, and no life worth salvaging.
11:35 a.m. - 2022-01-07
Recent entries:
Discovering (In)Tolerance - 2022-02-03
Inverted Cosmos - 2022-02-03
No Points Here - 2022-01-28
Again But Why - 2022-01-28
Cross-shaped Tear - 2022-01-18
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