Perch @perchingpath@eldritch.cafe

In this period of renovation, the fluttering of the museum's diaphanous lungs is visible in the Great Stair Hall.

@erinbee Thanks!

It's my birthday and my head's acidic & empty like an unfed gut. I want a skirt in the pattern of this Sasaki Atsushi dish so that when volition deserts me I can stare at my thighs & be filled with visions of poisonous molluscs & hand-made pasta & tangled masses of mating snakes.

Plucking the fire off a match, squeezing it with my thumb & forefinger until it bursts, and smudging its thin blue-orange juice along my cheekbones. Saving the spent match-head to dab behind my ears.

I told someone to shoot their popper full of streamers directly at me, and I'm still covered in highly desirable nesting material.

M. R. James induced false consciousness in my young mind by claiming self-destructive delves into the supernatural as a province of the upper class. All those caricatures of woodsmen & housekeepers sensibly retreating from uncanny encounters to leave protagonism to their betters.

She asked how I got my hair to do this, and I explained that I washed it lukewarm, sprayed it liberally from below while still barely damp, then passed into a trance to allow the spirits, whose judgment surpasses mortal ken, to configure my locks as they thought best.

I've bought my ticket for Witching and Immortal Bird in advance to give myself a deadline for snapping out of this disintegrative burst. In three days I have to cohere enough to stand in that crowd of black t-shirts and not feel like a... rotting scarecrow full of mice?

Repainting selfies. (Trying to catch it again.)

I don't even use mirrors anymore, I just hold up a stone head & shift my sensorium into it so I can check my hair from a perspective of lithic placidity.

Dreamed a long performance piece (at least an hour, unfinished when I woke) involving a man plagued by verminous spirits (fur on strings) & the reassembly of a humanoid stag's antlers (painted pvc slotting together). Why is my sleeping mind subject to these budgetary limitations.

https://malloryfolk.bandcamp.com/track/light-on-the-hill

Just slept over 9 hours after 9 insomniac days.
Dreamt I moved to a new city & was adopted by a spirit of loss, who barricaded the door behind which I'd left my bag of all worldly possessions but relented and vanished the moldering wood & rusting nails after tasting my distress.

Met by raptorous applause following your intensely vulnerable performance in the role of field mouse #31683.

Until quite recently I harbored an intractable unvoiced doubt as to whether lust was really something that could be felt bodily. I half-believed that was solely a social gloss to avoid thinking too hard about affection, power, & loneliness.

Main Line people only think it's dangerous over here because neighborhoods getting less white feels like a threat to them.
Sure, our town cops hounded a schizophrenic man for days then engineered a confrontation to cast murdering him as self-defense, but that'll happen anywhere.

The glare through St. Louis Lambert's glass walls will set us off again and she'll be inconsolable, trailing blind & weepy after the whir of my suitcase wheels while we look for our connection gate.

This portion of insomnia is tense, numbed, & paralyzed, like waiting in an airport. Not alone, which can be nice when it's not obligation that's sent you traveling, but with a fragile child. How long will she be occupied by her crosswords? What here is safest to feed her?

The iterative declassification of French nuclear test records will eventually reveal a tiny bomb was set off under my bed while I was out.