tatsuo
raze words grow like weeds in the wild. you've pruned yours from the crenulated path, leaving every conversation you were once a part of to collapse without your voice to fill it. i am the last living thing left that remembers you. the only one who knows where to look to see the marks you made, however faint they might be. this is the loneliness of being resolute: you become a living archive of all that's moved through and around you, clutching at shadows as if they might shed their shape and bend a lie of the light into a brittle truth now buried beyond your reach. there is a deeper dirt you cannot get to. not that you won't die trying. 250807
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from