Knotted thoughts in the ether of Victrola siibilance. Storytelling in reverse, to salve a bruise you gave yourself on the obliviousness of an Other. Like accidentally calling someone the wrong pet name while fucking. And then using that loanworded title from then on, to cover your shame and embarrassment. Searching for the middle of things from a tent on the edges of a ruined civilization. Taking and taking until there's a hole. And then filling that hole with want. And no amount of praise can ever caulk closed the wounds in the roof of your mouth. That you put there yourself with your co-conspiratorial tongues.
3:16 p.m. - 2023-07-12
Recent entries:
Golf and the CIA - 2023-07-28
Over the Days - 2023-07-26
Multicolored Avians - 2023-07-21
Total Unintended Shutdown - 2023-07-20
A Stutter; A Step - 2023-07-12
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