The dead air of tryst-funerals seasoning a week of everyone else's panic. Like listening to headphones with the volume turned down, while the entire world is shrieking in meaningless existential crises. Absconding to familiar planes of concrete. Scorching bronzed palms on superheated paint chips. Religiously sipping half-frozen brine from warped plastics to slake temple-heartbeats. Thirty milligrams of salts, and the dilation of hours, bleaches the color from the rest of the world. The cost of a hobbled week comes after.
1:35 p.m. - 2022-09-08
Recent entries:
Attempt to Pre-empt - 2022-09-29
What Is It For Nought? - 2022-09-23
A Tilted Frown - 2022-09-23
For A LIttle While Longer At Least - 2022-09-22
This is a Vacation? - 2022-09-21
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