Semi-Daily Scribbles

Level-headed dread. Rubbing the matchstick house wrong and coming up overdone and out of favor. Every decade has its pets. Burned out and numb from heel to skull. It is the sort of heat that extinguishes what it distinguishes to be a bright idea. All that is left is a smoldering desk which threatens to shed more blood. Frozen passion. The ice storm plays with fire in the only way it can.