Anonymously courting seventeen year old demons. Their horns changing the shape of long-dried ink. Counting the holes in late afternoon fog while I slowly kill myself with proxy loneliness. Whiplash fatigue and uncalloused fingers. An encore performance to spontaneous godhood. One moment of flawless wakefulness, and the breath of a sand-mandala.
3:48 p.m. - 2022-04-29
Recent entries:
Sinal Paint Mixing - 2022-05-19
Late Spiral Frenzy - 2022-05-10
Liver Blackout - 2022-05-10
The Unification of Bad Ideas - 2022-05-06
Insane Conflicts - 2022-05-02
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