Stitching clouds together in the shape of a memory hole. Marbled purple wails between aberrative steel and concrete. Bile-rage on every possible membrane. Orange heavens in a made-up reality. Fileting slices of week and weighing them on an analogue scale. The loneliness of exploration, anchored-- and fortified-- by identity. Erasing turbulence one chipped fragment at a time. Words as magic spells. Actions as cosmic glassblowing. Heartbeats that no longer keep common time, nor measure the shape of evenings. A gathering of crows is a murder. But we don't have a word to make a distinction between letters read on a page, versus ones scrawled on the wall.
5:14 p.m. - 2023-06-08
Recent entries:
Bringing to Broil - 2023-06-30
Syllabic Vortex - 2023-06-23
The Charm of the Third - 2023-06-23
Again Another - 2023-06-16
Perhaps the Last - 2023-06-15
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