Dear Diary,
I am faring poorly indeed. I fear the season has wrought the
worst upon me. I am a withered vestige; a dusty vessel. My arms hang
loosely like severed anchor chain. Unable to lift myself from despair, I
vacillate freely between tears and frustration. How many more months
can I go on like this? I am watching myself from above, and I cannot
save the man I see. He is hopeless for the time being. His empty carcass
drifts pointlessly in a labyrinth; slowly, for the exit is measured in
time not distance.
2 comments:
I've come back five times to read this paragraph. It's just so beautifully phrased.
We're in your corner, dude. Do the best you can.
Thank you for the compliment. It really helps. This entry was a goof, but this season is a shit.
On second read, this goof got a little too close to the troof.
Post a Comment