ccnAn ambient moth on the bench dimly lit by blinking fireflies, on a trip to the golden cherry.
ericwistful, everything's so wistful, or I am and everything is as always. but how can the light be so gentle and not recall a thousand ghosts? how can the winter beckon in july and I fall foward into it, more familiar than family
ericevery time unworlded and reworlded everything's a bit less
erici used to find a lot of solace in this thing
erica separation at the beginning of time, or the calcified ghosts, moon-sized, collapsing into the earth
ericso much rooted in an unwanted paradigm
ericpicking up shells to use as bracing against what will tear us away
ericeverything became various distant rattling sounds and colored lights/shapes, there is also nothing and nothing is more interesting