Mottled purple breaths of unborn painting the back of my neck. Soft crying from a synthetic womb. Retrieving a currency of letters from a recently forgotten past. Full of negative space and unwritten words. The memory of paper flowers pressed into the edges. An increasingly fractured life, mediated autonomously. It's what we wanted when we feared the wrong things. When we haven't learned how to want.
1:14 p.m. - 2023-02-08
Recent entries:
Inevitable Exhaustion - 2023-03-02
Steadyquill - 2023-03-02
Too Fast, Too Little - 2023-02-23
Vain Deals - 2023-02-16
Thin Opaque - 2023-02-16
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