Backseat riding in a witch's carriage. Minute chests that pop open with hourly regularity. Mimetic desire pixelated, and sloppily transmuted into eye-rolling. The management of algorithms, complete with bannings and endorsements. Late night phone calls into the emptiness. Slurring tongues and psychological analysis talking past one another into familiarity. All of these things, framing piles of dusty books and unmarked journals. The inexhaustible capacity of a wasted life. Accelerating into expurgation. Why, why? Too many instances of What-The-Hell-Is-Wrong-With-You? And still. the ocean undulates, and the boat turns slowly back toward recognizable stars.
5:28 p.m. - 2023-08-04
Recent entries:
Injection of Sweeteners - 2023-08-25
Clockwise Plummeting - 2023-08-25
Little Skulls and Icons - 2023-08-18
Lore Can Us - 2023-08-18
The Way of Weariness - 2023-08-08
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