Pink-hued delirium that smells of limes and foolishness. Tangerine sunsets and pleasant commercial chinwags with aged women. Not old or young. Aged. Eyes squinting at the darkening blacktop of windy roads. Weeping cranberry tears into a pile of discarded paper towels. The metallic taste of rotten vegetables in the back of my mind. A squandered finale. A fitting embarrassment of privilege. I dig around in my pockets for my cyanide capsule.
4:08 p.m. - 2022-03-04
Recent entries:
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