The un-rung bells of heaven gilding silent afternoons. Discomfiting quietude in the space of half-labored breaths. The souls of single serving friends evaporating into pixels and mute powder. Long self-seances in smeared bathroom mirrors. Squinting at the deepening lines on slightly tanned skin. Watching from the hills as the borrowed debt of futures collapses into bedlam. The sinkhole will leave nothing behind.
4:08 p.m. - 2022-06-17
Recent entries:
Not Quite Figs - 2022-07-01
Falling Afterpetals - 2022-06-30
Apextheosis - 2022-06-30
Cooking Oil - 2022-06-23
The Bland Taste of All That's Left - 2022-06-23
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