Tiny stone seizures at 2am that last through a night of failed solutions. Cortisol for dinner, every night, for weeks. The kind of forced socializing that leaves a a faint taste of spoiled bitterness in the back of one's throat. The asphyxia of small nauseas. The painful discomfort of overworked muscles, from fingers to scapula. A malaise of malaises. In the small hours of aloneness, the meaningless widening of unsplinched strictures. Unvoiced summons steer me through the final week of synthetic cheer and the flu of consumerism.
1:37 p.m. - 2022-12-21
Recent entries:
It Could Be Called 'Unfortunate' - 2023-01-12
Twenty-twenty Ambivalence - 2023-01-05
Without Lights - 2023-01-05
Panning for Time - 2022-12-29
Contrary Merriness - 2022-12-29
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