|Hi, I'm new around these parts.
||[Jan. 12th, 2006|01:40 pm]
The cloyed memories of a past filled with inevitable regret. I've been going through my things, already packed, to be further rid of possesions I no longer need, thrown out like yesterday's mourning paper. Deracinated. Painted in patina, I've found far too many journals at this point thoroughly desiccated, filled halfway with poetry, memoir, aphorism, thought and photographs, then abandoned. A bad habit of mine.|
Starting out a maelstrom of letters tangling into spangled sentences and dropping off mid-paragraph.
Austere, and always the same. "Dear diary," or "these blank walls..." or "broken like a.." Everything I do still reflects these half-filled accounts. Time lines etched into the margins and pronounced in ink.