Chinwags with palm trees the day of the equinox. The smell of cool breeze on the asphalt. Pockets surreptitiously filled with the shaved edges of the past. Clouds gently blocking a hand poised to brush away a fifteen year sand mandala. Thus the status quo is preserved, the midlife crises forestalled, and rectangles of life readied to be squandered. Three months to see if promises were only the gentle murmurs of geriatricism.
3:31 p.m. - 2022-09-22
Recent entries:
Redux For Someone Else - 2022-09-29
Compromised Impulse Control - 2022-09-29
Attempt to Pre-empt - 2022-09-29
What Is It For Nought? - 2022-09-23
A Tilted Frown - 2022-09-23
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