Slowly broken ankles, filed in triplicate. A strange gratitude in reclaiming demons once thought abandoned. The silent broadcasts of heaven as static in the clouds. Fireworks in stasis at the end of a branch. Thousands of tiny pink flowers to snag your elbows on. Skies filled with the nighttime smoke of existential distraction. The memory of the joyous shouts of childhood. Shards of past lives evaporating into the same meaningless aether from which it came.
1:14 p.m. - 2022-07-07
Recent entries:
Too Much, Too Much - 2022-07-22
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
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