Summer notebook series 4

Split fine mist. Spilt times drips. Drops milk down deep well of forced phrase. Mind on track on chugging. I hate to be this hunching cliche. Hate to stare down the distance fraught with meaning, stop start stagnate, radiate work and effort.

So this is the new state of my discourse, straight up and bland. damn. Not with a bang but a whimper.

This city feels patched together, thin like a showhome, showy like culture strained through a weak grasp of the concept. These words are not spackle. I'm a shoddy woodframe, I'm crumbling.