Trying to brush away strands of annoying musics while searching through debris for unboken records. The retraction of concession-compromises by weak old men. The future a dull palette of grimy gray malaise. Thirty six hours of self-loathing, blunted by the excuse of exploration. Some nights, I pray for cancer, so I can have all of the decisions made for me. I forget if I was always like this. When the temple was clinically unsullied. I resort to a handful of expired Unisom keeps my legs awake and cultivate my survivalists rage.
1:11 p.m. - 2022-09-23
Recent entries:
Absentee Glymphatic Exile - 2022-10-05
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
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