There in the grays of the season settling, there in the blues imbued dusk, the shape goes soft. Vision scratched and hindered, the roosting birds come home. All this splintered purpose spent over the long dull stretch of days, the years fraying the fabric until the wind blows clean through life. One thread, one blossom, one grain of sand. Every bit absolutely necessary, but the world is the story of getting by without. I’ve had about all the time I can stand.
Tuesday, December 25, 2018
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art for fuck’s sake
It’s not even halfway through May and the moon’s charge is running down, the day busy filling in the blanks. A long blue washed out empty fl...
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This is how your letter finds me, as beaten and bowed as nature allows. This is how your letter finds me, a little lighter on the metaphor. ...
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The heart is reckless mechanism. The heart is an essential worker. The heart won’t leave well enough alone. Carrying torches and keeping tim...
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Again it is the slow sweep of green against the crawl of cloud and sky, the wind on its hind legs kicking up the dust, this strange drawling...
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