Perhaps the future is in Lyncasposting.

My brain doesn’t work right anymore or maybe it’s just time maybe everything has figured itself out & we have wrung out of our words each and every single meaning. The past holds bitterness and hurt and hotel rooms. The future holds bitterness and hurt and hotel rooms. Here and now everything is mundane and spoken of! This is the new age of enlightenment!

Restless bored something awful. There is nothing new or exciting to say. Every word has been neatly catalogued, categorized, cauterized; every emotion gathered within a few newspaper clippings. Everyone is grieving all the time! Who cares! May we finally invent a loss that’s interesting to think about

So much love, so much love

Found lodged between the computerized cognates of a Tumblr bio, a strange tile indeed: from the dis-illusioned, de-metaphorized witnessing of the death of childly innocence to the expression of the dispossessing and helpless character of grief. Mourn on, sailor! You’ve got plenty of skeletons left to bury