Watered down taro milk tea gathered from the bosom of strangers. Grassblade moths in the small of a dying afternoon. A litany and characterization behind thin, synthetic clouds. The unreciprocated language of errors. Buried in the backyard with my mind. The next night is built from fewer chinwags. Three-legged beans and held breaths under tiny, artificial stars. All culminating in emptied jade receptacles, and unexhumed cavities.
4:08 p.m. - 2022-07-01
Recent entries:
A Week of Trysts - 2022-07-22
Perhaps It's Perspective - 2022-07-18
Houses in a Yard - 2022-07-15
Highwater Marque - 2022-07-15
Temporal Drain - 2022-07-07
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