Garbled nonsense trying to scaffold as facilitation. People who insist on making everything about Them. Approximately Ninety-Nine percent of Everyone. The repulsive and unwelcome touch of strange and legitimate perverts. Evenings-- lives, relationships-- ruined by undigested mourning and the comfort of a hippocampal void. The same question, repeated with a toddler's mouth, half a dozen times. Sulkiness in black satin sheets. An expectation of emotional eunuchdom. Weeping in the dark neon-blue of a stairwell. Absconscion. Admonishment. Food that tastes of nothing. And a fairy circle of mushrooms consumed by shadows that make the comfort of the blast shelter untenable. And so. An evening of hemorrhaging.
5:38 p.m. - 2022-11-17
Recent entries:
Chapter: Sigma - 2022-11-25
Too Full for Timely Gratitude - 2022-11-25
Many Faces Upon Faces - 2022-11-18
A Window of Solitude - 2022-11-18
The Mouth of Babes - 2022-11-17
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