Straining mottled shame through half-shadows. The familiarity of strangeness, and tinny echoes against pressboard walls. The presence of the absence of joy. But a deep and misunderstood satisfaction. Moonlight clouds hiding the highlights of spring. Blossoms wild and free in the untouched tracts of weeds between decaying houses. Not so far away, the shelling continues. And the omniscient tells us how to hate it.
5:16 p.m. - 2022-03-18
Recent entries:
Not About Lupines - 2022-04-01
Wagging Lie Holes - 2022-03-23
Detected Launch - 2022-03-23
Sketch - 2022-03-21
Of Weakness and Traitors - 2022-03-18
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