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Got a big isolation fan here. A real fiend for cloistering.

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.

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?

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.

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Eldritch Café

Une instance se voulant accueillante pour les personnes queers, féministes et anarchistes ainsi que pour leurs sympathisant·e·s. Nous sommes principalement francophones, mais vous êtes les bienvenu·e·s quelle que soit votre langue.

A welcoming instance for queer, feminist and anarchist people as well as their sympathizers. We are mainly French-speaking people, but you are welcome whatever your language might be.