Grinding out basslines to heal broken bones. Sinuses drunk on dark horse and carbonated moonlight. Midnight absconsion into the wan glow of stupor. Sallow eyes scavenging half-spoilt guilt, too warm to even enjoy. The illusion of discipline fracturing in the wake of middle-age. Don't be fooled; the following inevitable and omnipresent rage is atemporal. Aimed like the single-pixel red dot of a nuclear strike.
4:01 p.m. - 2022-03-23
Recent entries:
Inn Quill - 2022-04-07
First Name Miss Shell - 2022-04-01
Valley By The Sea - 2022-04-01
Not About Lupines - 2022-04-01
Wagging Lie Holes - 2022-03-23
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