7.4.24

 Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have my face crunched down into cold, white earth. What the taste of ice and blood would be like mixed together on my already acidic tongue.  Metallic. Lingering. Thick. If I'd find it in me to get up.  Blister out one more round despite it all. Or if I'd finally stay down. Drift off with the wind. Disappear into the quiet. 
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5.27.24

 

“Had me this boy once. You kinda remind me . . .” She turned and surveyed the corridor. “Johnny, his name was.”

― William Gibson, Neuromancer

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