Frayed throat strings that sting like bliss. Broken bits of battered body unhealing for much too long. A night of cold sweat regrets. Wasting away a week at a time. Slowly, all at once, joy takes on the flavor of nothing. Sat quietly in a blast room on the outskirts of Zombilandia, dissociation has the texture of headphone noise. A brief renewal of flirtation with The Queen's Land. Off with our heads. Bury them in the castles of clouds, behind the creaking dollhouses. Go to sleep; it's time to die.

12:56 p.m. - 2023-01-26