August 10th, Year 22

James Dean was loved more post-mortem. Women want to fuck cold things that do not speak. No one likes it when a man cries.

I am far enough along in the practice of my own independence, to have found some answers. To not long for some enchanted ivory tower, frequented by the sophisticated elite. To not want to fuck a corpse.

Autumn is around the bend, with its reds, browns, and unsettling winds. Sweeping changes are coming for the well-behaved. Pumpkins will fully ripen. Children will wear long scarves that cover their delicate throats. They’ll get their fingers smashed while closing the car door, and it will be their first taste of excruciating pain. The moon will yellow and widen. Eerie noises will echo from tree to tree.

The squire and the knight sleep, but not ever Rocinante.

August 10th, Year 22

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