Seven coins waiting at the end of another porn novella. Weathered hands, withered mind. White streaks absolving humanity for infinity. Discovering an additional book in the margins of the year's end. Titled Sadly, the Same. Switching to Greyhounds in the drab afternoon. Greasy rain washing away residual guilt memory. Playful flirting with obesity. Bailouts for half of the west, lulling us into gentle brain-death.

11:27 a.m. - 2022-01-07