broken_film misstree there's a certain horror in things unremembered, a moment blank as a tooth socket when the tongue, on waking, gropes, knowing there should be something there, that there was, but it's gone for good. the moments of that night skip forward, and the eyes of the world know what i lost, and it's never pretty. the thwackita thwackita of broken film is a portent of apologies unimaginable, the blood on my lip a question and accusation and a dark red taste of what drove me. along the edges i hear myself yelling, screaming, full of rage for no known reason, lashing out at any who dared be helpfully close. not even knowing what sins i committed, i flog myself with torn celluloid, knowing it won't bring a bit of absolution. 130318 what's it to you? who go blather from