Arteries mainlined with orange pill powder. Braiding weeds into heaven-spun spirals. Clipping one emerald spade at a time to release the shapes within. Madness moldering in the compost. Sinewy ankle shavings left over from youth. Decommissioned art appearing in the thin alleys of requests. Growing old is just rigor mortis in real-time, slow motion. Looking forward to a day where my mind leaves beneath cherry blossoms and ash.
3:28 p.m. - 2022-06-30
Recent entries:
Perhaps It's Perspective - 2022-07-18
Houses in a Yard - 2022-07-15
Highwater Marque - 2022-07-15
Temporal Drain - 2022-07-07
Not Quite Figs - 2022-07-01
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