The wind blows in cold for a warm May evening. A faint smell hangs heavy on the breeze like an instinct. The aroma of honeysuckle; the weight of memory.
I'm gusted away by the concussion of synapses firing; syntax wiring.
Innocence, sweet innocence lost in the florals of an IPA; in the curls of ectoplasm rising from Briarwood. Fading into atmosphere; making it heavy on...
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