Wednesdays are for pizza parties. Except for salty tunas; always unwelcome.

The floor is our meeting space. A touch of somberness hangs in the air as the backbone’s clock ticks. T-minus 2 weeks. Collective opinions, unfortunate news, my silence is my contribution – or lack thereof.

Yesterday’s battle with dust continues, with experimental tunes and feel good clean riffs in the background.

Another joint.
More talks, my brain zooms while my mouth struggles to speak. Scribbles scribbles scribbles, followed by a gripping paranoia only a few puffs can bring me.
Salted caramel with dark chocolate ganache cake made me better, though.

Still, the question lingers; what do I think of me?


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