The day's salt washed from my lips,
the day's heat long dissipated,
I sit in the of fresh blackness of the sepia night,
and lick the last taste of dark chocolate from
my teeth.
Citronella skin stings,
pink sore.
Sleep drags slow and sweaty, then it
crashes. Heavy, dark waves on an
infra-red beach.
It buries like sand.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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