SHOREBIRD DIE-OFF

Modest Mouse. That song. “And we were dumb dumb dumber than the dirt dirt dirt on the ground.” Check.

Details are neither necessary nor advisable at this point. A self destructive streak can never be unpainted from the soul. Once placed, it remains at the core of one’s existence, manifesting in various forms. Sometimes it’s the “I can’t stop loving that man, even if he tromps my heart a million times” and sometimes it’s the “I can’t stop tromping on my own heart no matter how resolved I am to stop it.” In either case the end result is the same. Desolation. Solitude. Emptiness. It’s where I started out and where I end up consistently. The boot to the heart. Down in the dirt. Lower than before, if that can possibly be.

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