a full moon, his long months of waning and waxing, losing his soul and gaining it again though corrupt by fault of human shadows, waiting for anything, in fact, to shoot him down at last
clouds of antimony pushing my starving wings into that cold aqua, my fronds humid from flying in too much proximity to that liquid waving ground—i am no additionally lucky than an anti-Icarus
a full moon, his long months of waning and waxing, losing his soul and gaining it again though corrupt by fault of human shadows, waiting for anything, in fact, to shoot him down at last
First login on Dec 2020
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