Late spring trysts in the shelter of overgrown parking lots. Aged seeds planted in fanaticism. Mark 4:5. The secret is in the loneliness of the shade. While in the distance, people shout hoarsely at the sunlight. Just to drown out the the chatter of crows. The Ten of Cups falling from my mouth, and landing on folded knees. The soft hands of strangers caress my limbic system at unpredictable hours. Their touch roughened by wanting and hand-me-down shame.
5:14 p.m. - 2022-04-15
Recent entries:
The Unification of Bad Ideas - 2022-05-06
Insane Conflicts - 2022-05-02
Grazing Deification - 2022-04-29
Codex Fetishism - 2022-04-21
An Accidental Art Cat - 2022-04-21
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