536.

There is a soundtrack,
somewhere, to suit each second
of this existence.

535.

The reflection from
this face staring back at me
somehow confuses.

534.

Small owl faces, their
eyes tilted in a haunting
complicity. Hung.

533.

There are moment's of
certainty that each blink holds
ghosts within its sight.

532.

She drew herself up,
dead of night and sleeping, brain
compelled from slumber.

531.

The dust kisses the
window corners and drapes the
room, a disused shroud.

530.

Intoxicated
on what damage this sober
reality makes.

529.

In the silence of
an empty house, disquiet
creeps in on soft feet.

528.

The larval remains
of a regurgitated
heart lays twitching here.

527.

I wonder at the
construction of the fragile
shell of these bodies.

526.

Does everyone else
in the world feel different
from each other too?

525.

A Hunter Thompson
prophecy in flesh. Nothing
can save that heart now.

524.

In a blink, the sky
bleeds into the dark expanse,
gone in an instant.

523.

A child's trusting grasp
around a parent's neck is
such trusting beauty.