Perch @perchingpath@eldritch.cafe
Register swerves, confusions of scale.
She, elle.
Mostly within 30 miles of Philadelphia, because of a curse.
Joined Sep 2018
My mother asked why I already had a bountiful supply of nitrile gloves, and I was like, "Oh, they're useful for all kinds of things."
While walking last night I found a texturally camouflaged metal tyrannosaur skeleton and a single pristine jigsaw piece. The sharp reduction of human industry is allowing hidden object puzzles to lay claim to my neighborhood.
Reckon someone from the high school jubilantly shotput this chair over that fence when the district shutdown was announced. Probably a student, but I'm not ruling out union faculty.
Fretting slightly over the gibbous overlap in the Venn of {people I care about} & {people who are constantly touching their faces}.
(Including myself, obviously. I'll have bitten my knuckle & tapped my cheekbone by the time you read this.)
Even in the absence of other inoculating experiences, having worked in a field in which my bosses were often women would have sufficed to prevent my becoming painfully idealistic about womanhood.
I may never tire of authors building beautiful things in the first half of their books and destroying them in the second. Vivid cities abruptly razed, poignant webs of relationships clipped by multiple murder... it's a pattern/feeling I'm an absolute sucker for.
I've only twice heckled a band. The first time was when half of Black Lips finished their tedious opening set by getting their cocks out, and the second was when Richard Bishop said something derisive about Pansy Division.
internal injury
Doomed to have my whole brainbody mess periodically wracked by insomnia because I find chamomile repellent.
In this period of renovation, the fluttering of the museum's diaphanous lungs is visible in the Great Stair Hall.
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.
Register swerves, confusions of scale.
She, elle.
Mostly within 30 miles of Philadelphia, because of a curse.
Joined Sep 2018
