Concrete sickness in vibrating-sunset veins. An empty hotel room illuminated by grief and uncertainty. Late morning walks in a hollow world, the sun gilding my eyes. Dopaminergic depletion and still-weeping wounds held together by cyanoacrylate and repetition. Etimasia: preparation for the death hidden beneath ten upside-down cups. Set to repeat beneath the familiar stars of the weekend. A final branch of pretty red leaves, a half-crumpled and ink-heavy paper crane, and a pouch of keys hidden beneath a slate shard. The last, long walk back along streets that will eventually no longer be familiar.
5:23 p.m. - 2022-11-17
Recent entries:
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
Studio Singularity - 2022-11-17
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