Garnet streaks against the sand, violently massaged by the elements for millennia. Low tide pools as a perfect(ly timed) metaphor for life. Razored sea-green angles and deep purple boulder blockades. A short hollow in the cliffs as a mouth for god, shouting me back in whispered gusts. A exquisite graveyard of seashells. A brief infinity of unsullied dunes. Crabs and abalone among shallow urchins. The corpses of driftwood structures from those that have come before. With windburned faces and pockets full of rainbows stolen from ashen clouds. Maybe that's where I'll go when I die.
2:51 p.m. - 2022-04-01
Recent entries:
Sometimes Solutions - 2022-04-15
Cloud Castle Life - 2022-04-15
Hometown Best Friend - 2022-04-15
Alpha Beta Soup - 2022-04-07
Inn Quill - 2022-04-07
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