it was always an experiment. for the first time it wasn’t a journal, and that had always been the problem. too much churning, mucky pointlessness in those, a daily spilling of mud on a porcelain floor that had to be mopped up again and again.
this was to be a handprint in wet concrete, a tiny, temporary thing that never went away, disrupting an impervious façade, a reminder of the beauty in incompleteness. Humans disrupt. We are hardwired to want.
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