The synchronized twilight of lives for no real reason. Gilded afternoon horizons leaking from nostalgias I've never breathed. The nasence of living other lives while we waited for the momentum of age to catch us. Fingers stilted with unwrung words. Trying to filter out the everpresent chatter of aimlessness with a head half-full of melodies. Mornings split between impotence and regret, and a blonde-shaped divot in my heart unfilled with consonance.
4:50 p.m. - 2022-11-17
Recent entries:
A Window of Solitude - 2022-11-18
The Mouth of Babes - 2022-11-17
Studio Singularity - 2022-11-17
All You Do Is Hurt Me - 2022-11-17
On Being Very Sorry. - 2022-11-17
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