Perch @perchingpath@eldritch.cafe
Scarp scree clatter.
She, elle.
Within 30 miles of Philadelphia, because of a curse.
Joined Sep 2018
I need to return at midnight to see what appears on that perfect little shelf. My bet's on several framed photographs and, almost immediately, a single lick of flame to scorch them illegible. What do you reckon.
gun
I was so overcome by the pervasive floral jubilance as to be left incapable of worrying about the extended shotgun fusillade emanating from the trailhead.
Having used a chainsaw to split the roots of some ornamental grasses, I had to meticulously floss the mud & strands from between its teeth. Between that & the balking & bucking, it's hard to deny them a high placement in any list of objects most likely to be only feigning inanimacy.
Froggy vernal fog-songs about fucking to spite the heron and the high creek.
whimsical eye trauma
Injecting my eyes (left then right) with the tincture that will reshape my pestering army of mouches into stars & crescents and set them gently luminescing.
The shallow end, near the steps, is dry & shaded enough for snowdrops, while the sodden, iron-rich soil halfway down the pool is just right for growing a bumper crop of rust-ripe serrate scrap.
The most goth naturally occurring structure is the wing of a crane fly. A marbled Tipulidae wing put to aesthetic use conveys a broadly gothic sentiment upwards of 90% of the time, handily outstripping bats' silhouettes and elongated canine teeth.
Do you think the appeal of theme parks is the appeal of complete, irreparable defeat, of being in an environment so fully terraformed by your enemies that you don't have to question the uselessness of any action opposing them? I don't.
I found a raw book by the glasshouse ruin, a posthumous volume of correspondence collecting several hundred ardent invitations to saproxylic suitors.
What if we land and drink from this runoff feeder-beck and in sympathy turn to oil-sheen glass, stand statue for decades watching water and dust and water then remember we're alive and fly off.
I can't remember the last time I said anything important aloud. This voice is rusting.
I hit the tower just past 3 AM and the cricket machines were as loud as I'd ever heard them.
I walked for hours, encountering neither a lull in the storm nor a fellow meanderer.
The snow fell in such thick clots that I twice mistook its wind-curved motion for a hawk's swoop.
Scarp scree clatter.
She, elle.
Within 30 miles of Philadelphia, because of a curse.
Joined Sep 2018
