Regret spreading into the tiny fissures of rationale. Slowly but steadily, without malice. Like the black mold under the windowsill of the run-down tenement that now only houses you. Half a home emptied of memories. Undusty shapes on the floor and wall hold open the soul-sutures. The conventional wisdom says that the space-- the distance-- will heal your heart-spores in time. But that's not true. It's the coward's first fleeing steps. The quick, striding steps of guilt away from the wreckage wrought by your careless hands.
1:01 p.m. - 2022-12-01
Recent entries:
Don't Forget to Remember - 2022-12-09
Rock Holds and Glass Windows - 2022-12-09
Unwellnessism - 2022-12-09
Miss Shell - 2022-12-01
+145 BPM - 2022-12-01
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