Ink-black evenings mottled by the flirtation of rain. The coalescence of Type Two Errors into kaleidoscope stuttering. Force-locked, pastel-orange eyes copper-wired to the hiccups of the hippocampus. Arrival into pristine consumerist filth. Beds without canopies, walls without holes. Lukewarm fare that leaves an illusion of bloodletting on borrowed linens. Handspun, collaborative giggles in the obscene hours of giddy escape. Euphoria and heartbeats. The dogged pursuit of a death-spiral. Synthetic caves adorned with totemic symbols of tranquility. The warm, gentle breath of an unknown caretaker. Dreams stolen from a background of sunlit screaming. The slow and grinding halt of biology, and the footfalls of monsters as a panacea. Captured by fatigue and pushed, face-down, into surface-level, slow-motion waves. Awake. Cloud cover and obligation. Sojourns into vineyarded fiefdoms as a display of devotion. Authentic, stone-castle walls. Plastered over hedonistic pretension. An acute and undispellable sensation of intrinsic absurdity. Released into the jarring embrace of hidden-sun chilliness. Time passes. And in the end, the destination is always The Nest That Is Not Home.
4:43 p.m. - 2024-02-16
Recent entries:
Absent a Confessional Booth - 2024-02-23
Counties and Bylines - 2024-02-16
Repetitions Within Repetition - 2024-02-16
Too-short Summarization - 2024-02-02
A Reunion of Practice - 2024-02-02
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