skonen_blades: (Default)
According to Darwin we represent an unbroken chain of sex
Going back to the dawn of life on earth
There’s a record in our DNA of everything we’ve ever been

If that first amoeba was a dip of wax
(on creation’s mysterious wick)
And every life since was another thin layer added
Then we are candles that could
(if lit)
melt back through time
Face and body running in drips
(like the melting nazi at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark)
Becoming human, hairier human, thicker human,
monkeyish human, humanish monkey,
Mysterious mammals we’d never recognize,
Bizarre amphibians
to melting fish to blobs to cells
until a pop
a huge pause
and then the massive explosion of the starting gun

Making us, in a way, five-dimensional bombs
running forwards from our big bang
The after effects of an explosion
Shrapnel flung through entropy
A dispersal of dandelion seeds
As the clock runs down and the smoke clears

A planet-wide orgy led to us
Each act separated by the accordion of time
A series of little bangs that lead back to the big one
A drumroll of pelvic thrusts
Families trees are just a branching record of orgasms
Trial and error grinding on each other
Using mistakes as the tool to sculpt us

The thing to remember
Is that we’re the ones that survived
Dragon scale generations
Overlapping like waves on a beach
Through time’s one-way street

I understand people that think there’s no one at the wheel
Because it sure feels like it sometimes
But I also understand people who think that there is a design
Because it’s all quite frankly incomprehensible
And the idea of it being random is just too much
That this much complexity could be purposeless
But chaos is pretty complex too
So I metronome back and forth

To me, the idea of an intelligent being creating this
And the whole thing just happening randomly
Are pretty much the same thing
In the same way that light is a wave and a particle

But I like being alive for the most part
To have the ability to even think like this
And I’m grateful to all the pairs of creatures that hooked up
To bring me here



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
Sometimes I’d like to be
Paid by the bathtub in sticky money
To be a Venn diagram of shark, wit, and false modesty
Living on knocked-off socks
A wet dreamboat
Disappointing lovers interested in rocks
Because I won’t night marry
To be pure unleashed joie de mort
With a fleet of hearses
Each colour of the rainbow
To human write of human rights
With spree verse and sonnet booms
While Sisyphusing success into the volcano
To be a soothing soothsayer saying
Prayers for paying prey
While seeking out cameras
And avoiding night-time mirrors

But if that was true
I know I’d be
A taxidermied tax attorney
Emotional without being intimate
A matouschka doll urn
An ashcan human
Putting out fires
By spilling grey, dead words on conviction
Turning passion into morgue bedsheets
While game-show smiling
And winking to abused pets
Secretly sick of the echoes
From my own abandoned shopping mall of a soul
Starvation brings out the worst in people
And I’d be scared
That my chair was starting to look pretty delicious
That teeth were turning dagger behind my back
And with every step I took
I’d hear the sound of scissors being sharpened

It can be a scary thing to become mundane
And scarier still to realize that was always the case
To come to know that unique does not mean special
To get enough experiences to see
That your tastes are actually pedestrian
And that your opinions count for nothing
In the face of most avalanches

Rolling with that is very hard for most people to do
Relevance is a hell of a drug
And fame is the meth of self-worth

But it can also be comforting
To know that you are common
That the world isn’t watching
And to be happy with your throw rug
Your perfect sandwich
Your corner of allowance
Your silent warm bath
Your deeply lucky dice roll
And your shreds of love



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
The media we see (tv, and comics, films, and books)
Are all just ways to get our money fished out onto hooks
And reeled in to the coffers of the companies that make
Our childhood dreams for dollar streams that river to their lake
The cultural effect they’ve had is simply happenstance
We’re bystanders to advertising; diehard fans by chance
Creatives make a product that they hope will please and thrill
But everything is done because they’ll need to push and shill
The toys and secondary merch the property has spawned
And every single dollar spent is one that has been conned
But when it works, foundation blocks of psyches crystallize
And faithful followers are formed who then proselytize
And have epiphanies that supernova through their mind
Religious converts seeking out those others like their kind
They form what’s called a fandom or what I would call a sect
A base of holy starry-eyed disciples who respect
That film or book or tv show or comic that they bought
Because it gave them happiness when other things did not
But there are those whose zealotry is somewhat frightening
Who gaslight, scare, and harm who they think they’re enlightening
Who don’t seem to realize while they’re on the attack
The properties that thrill them are the ones that owe them jack
The only thing the things fans cherish want is wallets wide
The love that they engender is a nominal aside
Appreciated, yes, because the money that it brings
Is generated by fanaticism’s offerings
The lightning in a bottle that is caught and sold to them
Becomes a sort of monetary black-hole Bethlehem
It feels win-win because the love the fans all feel is real
But corporation’s bottom lines aren’t things that even feel
Fandoms, just like churches, start to schism, split, and change
As ages, tastes, and interests start to spread and grow in range
The hardcores start a new church that they think will be pristine
But that splits, too. They don’t need church. They need a time machine.
You can’t go home again, they say, as months and years go by
The mirror tells the truth, they say, and memory’s a lie
And properties that anchor fans and give them happiness
In many ways, I’m sad to say, don’t actually exist
They’re all just tricks that worked too well and spawned a flock of fans
Who now are faithful missionaries who can’t understand
The god they worship doesn’t care. It only wants the cash.
And it’ll keep on selling ‘til the world’s turned to ash
So when a sequel or a reboot splits a fandom’s flock
And feathers fly and ‘true fans’ cry and use the chopping block
I’m scared that their pursuit of keeping up a purity
Is just a signal of their tragic immaturity
Like those who thinks the stripper’s really into what they say
The ones who thinks that servers flirt for more than simply pay
Fragile dupes and rubes who fell in love with something fake
Who never really realized their god was on the take
And when that god finds target audiences fresh and new
These followers are left behind in their own dusty pew
So know this nerds, from one old priest, from one geek to another
Try to see me as a kind of kindly older brother
Hear me when I saw what’s new won’t disappear what’s old
That childhoods all have their day and then they get resold
Expecting or demanding otherwise is pure denial
You need to welcome all the new with one big nerdy smile
The gates you’re keeping can’t be kept from entropy’s cruel trick
The gates you keep will rust and fall. It’s just arithmetic.
And know that this belief we share will shift and change with time
Embrace the unavoidable when you are past your prime
And be respected, gentle, kind, historians for fans
Instead of cruel, abusive, jerks that no one understands
Remember that your love was bought but faithful you can be
By being kind and welcoming in your idolatry
Cause you if you do, you’ll swell your flock, and you can all join in
And all rejoice whenever new material comes in
And talk about the old and new and love it and relate
Whatever you hold dear, you can hold dear without your hate





tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
His astrological sign is wieners and beans
His rising sign is a twisted rainbow galloping through the cup of his broken liver
He sneezes in retrograde and his nose apologizes
His first house wraps presents and burns them
His second house is a sex worker
splurging on late-night poutine while six Mount Rushmores watch and drool
His fingers are his third house
And his hands are an entire elevator of emotions with rats chewing on the cables
jiggling like lures
like a mating dance
like a forgiven butterly hovering over leftover steak in someone’s bedroom after closing time
His fourth house is a Las Vegas unicorn
addicted to glowing lassos
His fifth hasn’t stepped on a bug in decades
His sixth is drinking vodka out of a penthouse dog dish
His seventh house is tentacles rising,
sprouting torpedo squid hugs and alien octopus hope
until it Cthulus all over itself in inky impossible math
His eighth is a house of cards
that shuffles itself and yells at everyone in collage
about its odd socks and left feet
and how it keeps letting those one-way tickets pile up
His ninth house is a conjurer
and the only thing up its sleeve is the glorious mundane
the patience to endure banality
the talent to not appear tired
and if you think that’s not a magic trick, then it worked
His tenth house is throwing a boomerang around the sun
because his wisdom teeth couldn’t think of anything better to do
so they left his mouth and invested in seeing the world
His eleventh house blimps underwater
in a floating naval minefield of tethered hearts
clustering like balloons in the sweating hands of a clown at a county fair
stuck beneath the waves in peaceful numbing cold
the dinner-plate eyes of passing luminescent fish
stare at it as they pass in silence
His twelfth house is one mountain goat away from covering itself in maple syrup
and calling itself the Canadian flag.
It’s one credit card away from buying the rights to broken glass.
His star chart waves from a shredder in the breeze
The white stripes growing by the second
As flammable as the closest campfire
Where he might heat up a can cowboy-style
Of wieners and beans



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
I am caught in the hurricane of your voice
Your wax hammers and soft fists
You wade through the ocean of me
A skyscraper person
Stirring my depths and haunting every sky

You cure me as a storm would
Dambreaking down through the clouds
Flattening the grass around me
Soaking me in the sound your laugh
My heart pulls heavy leg past heavy leg
Saturated in love

Your concern is deafening
Your attention falls like a slow meteor
Each embrace is an extinction level event
I dinosaur footprint in them
I shockwave in them

Your compliments are bright shark fins
Through night-time cumulus
That impact blinding nuclear-winter mushrooms
That fault line continents and echo around my world
But I only stumble
And glow in the dark

This happiness will surely split my taxidermy open
I’m scared I will speak in piñata for the first time
I feel too small for the love I feel
That I want to tennis back to you
That threatens to explode me
That might leave me too smashed to hold it

I can’t black hole it
But neither can I contain the fire hose of sunshine
I leak the light through the cracks
The weaknesses that road map my shell
The eroding tensile strength of my structural integrity
I kintsukuroi brightly with your love

My architect was drunk
And somehow the love you give
Finds its way into the meat of my voice
Searchlights my face to you
And I stop being a mime
Wearing a mask
Playing a man
Behind the locked door of my eyes

I earthquake under my ocean
Destroyed by holding your hand
Trying to steer a tidal wave



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
Post critical mass on the downslope of a tipping point
Over the hill as a species
Experiencing possible forced retirement

And I don’t want to go back to normal

Our hands are off the throat of the planet
Our feet are off the accelerators
The garage has been given a chance to stop filling up with exhaust

I’m sure we’ll find a way to bring back some of what have already become the ‘old ways.’
The pre-covid greed orgy fear parade
The massive pyramid schemes scouring the earth of dignity
The fast forward of it all
The charge for the cliff

I don’t like the death
I don’t like the anxiety
I don’t like the lack of touch
I don’t want to starve
I don’t want all small businesses to fail

But I do like the unity that’s free in the world right now
I like the definitive exposure of who is essential and who’s not
I like the pivoting to online, the survival evolution of communication
I like the proof of what works politically and what doesn’t
I like our yearning for each other
This time to think

I like the family time and the walks
And the sudden exponential growth in the value of human contact

Boosted by the fresh bright spur of knowing that this is just a gentle nudge
A warning shot across the bow
Compared to what’s possible

But if we can find a way to stabilize this
And have an economy that works
To make temporary quarantine xtra into a permanent quarantine lite

I wouldn’t mind








tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
Darwin, in Galapagos, wrote evolution down
But those are not the only islands where strange things abound
Where dead ends merely hang a left off road and innovate
Where niches beg for filling so the mutations mutate
In distant, misty seas that hide away from human eyes
In secret archipelagos, they warp and improvise

Why, take the chain called Runktugus in South Pacific seas
A tiny group of dots on maps and rich in manganese
Though no one know its rich because it’s yet to be explored
In fact the only people who have ever been before
Is one young sailing couple who were gusted way off course
(They struggled back to port but it resulted in divorce)

But on the beach they picnicked while they planned a way back home
And left the basket there awash in tidal ocean foam
With all the dishes, vessels, tools, utensils, mugs, and such
And Darwin would be first to say it doesn’t take that much
It’s been centuries since they both luncheoned near the sea
And what they left behind is now a strange menagerie

Their detritus and tableware has mixed and reproduced
And evolutionary overdrive’s been soundly goosed
The simple fork and knife and spoon combined in many ways
The glass, the bowl, the plate, the cup, are also in these bays
They mix and warp, compounding genes in ways complex and free
Some grotesque and some divine, all with some specialty

They fill each niche that offers food with new ecologies
They cross breed, grow and mutate into new zoologies
There’s sporks and foons and knorkenspives that flit from tree to tree
There’s every kind of combo of this mutant cutlery
The crockery’s been remixed on the potter’s wheel of time
With halfglass cups that undulate near plates that grasp and climb

They’ve even mated with the local wildlife round here
There’s even jellyfish of glass that look like chandeliers
There’s turtle baskets, bottlefish, and spoonsnakes in the hills
There’s tablecloths that fly like moths with bird-like hunting skills
There’s urchins made of fork tines and some bushes growing knives
There’s little tiny pepper shakers living out their lives

A colony of cheese-knife ants walk past some teacup seals
And near to them a frightened corkscrew-bodied otter squeals
There’s bowlicans and parrotknives, and bugs with forks for tails
And never do these animals see passing sailboat sails
They live in freakish joy without a pen to call them freaks
As evolution improvises wild new techniques

But that’s just one of many islands we have never seen
There’s probably a thousand of them warping cell and gene
Playing jazz with DNA and objects washed ashore
Microcosmic symphonies that scream for an encore
Ecospheres with no one there to call them weird or strange
And where the only constant constant is, as always, change



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
The halos up in Heaven vary very differently
Some are hula hoops while some float microscopically

No two are identical; these glowing hoverthings
That bob above angelic heads like floating, neon rings

Some are barely cheerios a human thumbnail wide
And others look like pipe you’d use to build a waterslide

Some halos have a rakish tilt, or perch towards the stern
But all of them with holy light magnificently burn

Look! There’s one there! A massive halo seven meters wide
Why, were that halo on the ground, a truck could fit inside

And that looks like the smallest halo, like a tiny star
It’s special and unique but really, all the halos are

Each halo girth, and width, and tilt, diameter, and size
Circumference, volume, number, height, and weight. You’d be surprised.

The only thing that bothers them is halos are quite bright
They never dim or darken and they don’t turn off at night

Most angels like the light they bring and angels don’t need sleep
But every now and then an angel’s eyes will start to weep

He’ll crave some darkness. Just a blink. A little tiny night.
A break from the incessant beaming headdress made of light

Sometimes it can be assuaged and quelled and pushed away.
Content, that angel spends eternity in constant day

But sometimes angels cannot be eternally awake
And one thing halos have in common is that they can break.

A quick reach up, a grip, a twist, a snap, a pop, and there
The angel’s halo cracks in half and darkness fills the air

Relief and then a scream and then the fallen angel cries
Because the halo can’t be fixed and now they realize

That darkness can be just as constant torment as the light
Eternal darkness just as equal to eternal night

The broken halo floats in halves above the angel’s head
The shadows making everything look drab and dark and dead

Two letter Cs, a horseshoe split, two curves that damn and haunt
From just a momentary lapse of judgement and of want

And they become the type whose mere appearance scares and warns
Because a broken halo from the front can look like horns

That’s all demons are you see, just broken halo folk
The ones that couldn’t take the light and made their halos broke

There’s just as many pairs of horns as halos up above
And just as many filled with hate as angels filled with love

Remember when you see a demon wandering around
It’s just a haunted broken-halo angel who’s been downed



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
When a magician pulled a rabbit out of a hat
(In the olden times)

He’d ask for a hat from the audience
(Because everyone wore hats
Because pulling it out of his own hat would be suspect
Because the hat itself was immaterial)

Because that was the actual trick

But the audience stopped wearing hats
So the magician needed to bring his own

He wore fancy clothes back then
(Because everyone who went to the theater wore fancy clothes
Because he wanted to look like the audience
Because he needed to disarm them with familiarity)

Because that was the actual trick

But the audience stopped wearing fancy clothes
And the magician kept his suit
Because it went with the hat

The audience changed
The magician didn’t
The magician became a tradition
Which became a definition

To this day, classic magicians dress well
And if you draw one in a cartoon
He will probably have a top hat

This, to me, is what has happened to our institutions;
Governments, nations, churches, police, banks, schools

They used to come from the audience
Because everyone felt like a part of them
Because using them to exploit would be suspect
Because the institution themselves were just people
Because everyone who participated in them had faith
Because they needed to look like the audience
Because they needed to disarm the audience with familiarity

Because that was the actual trick

But all that’s left now is a costume
That no longer reflects the people
And the sleight of hand is missing
It’s just theft now out in the open
A robbery

That finishes with a ‘ta-da.’



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
There’s the wall
The stop dead despair of it all
The can’t do anything part
The not in service right now
The ‘people are dying next door’
There’s a pretense and a calm
More brittle in some
Stretched thin and tight over a chasm
Stretched over ‘there’s no end in sight’
And a lack of details
And this feeling goes away

And we enjoy the love
The memes
The entertainment
The calming hose of positivity
The company of who we’re with
If we’re with anyone
The zoom of it all
The skype of it all
The second-best-to-touching of it all

And then the wall
We crash test dummy against it
Surprised again
At the statistics
The novelty
The darkness
The news
But it passes

It has increased the value of time
And somehow sped it up
And made it matter less
There is no longer Thursday
Or April 21st
Or 3 pm
There is only light outside or not
Rain outside or not
Hungry or not
Time with loved ones if they’re near
And games
And laughter
And holding on tight
Until
(Again)
The wall


tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
My sheeple dreams are sheeple deep
And sheeple rich and creamy
I sheeple heard my sheeple herd
Are all asleep and dreamy
With steeple faith and shopping sales
And lying lies they tell us
We blend our souls by blending in
So predators can’t smell us
To be or not 5G, he says
Attempting to awaken
Our sheeple vast majority
But he must be mistaken
He thinks if we wake up, we’ll fight
And bite the feeding hands
And somehow wear the shepherd’s clothes
And make utopic plans
And share and shear alike our wool
And have enlightened days
He sees it all in black and white
While we see things in graze
For all his efforts, we snooze on
Subservient in slumber
Outweighing all his arguments
through our sheer size of number
I count my friends; they count on me
To make ourselves feel sleepy
To sheepishly drift off to sleep
And dream our dreams so sheepy
What dreams may come inside our sleep;
Our ungulatey heads
These wooly thoughts, these bleating hearts
Asleep in dormant beds
His theories and conspiracies
And fringe community
Bounce off our warm and valued fur
Our herd immunity
We only hear the theories when
The abbatoir’s been greased
Or when we’re cold and shivering
From when we’ve all been fleeced
But if the wool is thick and warm
The sheeple love to doze
The higher that we count ourselves
The more we love repose
But I don’t think we’ll wake today
And seize production means
For sheep are bad at running things
Our hooves can’t work machines
I think we’ll just nap here a bit
While dreaming dreams of sheep
‘Cause all our lives, as Shakespeare says,
Are rounded with a sleep
skonen_blades: (Default)
She tries to under herself
To blanket and dive
To drown recreationally
To get to the quiet
And the dark
In the depths
But she’s a cork
Frustratingly buoyant
Surfacing too soon
Breaching too quick
Over and over
Stinging in the wind
The noise gushing from every screen
And mouth and beaming face
Making her
Something skinless in the salty sun
She wants to play hide and seek
With life
While it counts to a billion
Eyes closed to her
And she slips invisible somewhere
Into some effortless warm memory
Somewhere off the clock
A place where pause
Is possible
And this is all gone somewhere else
Where she can hermit a long lull
Turning one forever moment
Over and over
Like a diamond in her hand
Breathing everything
She’s ever breathed in
Out


tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
He goes out once a year, you see
On every Halloween
His countenance is hideous
So he hates to be seen
But once a year his face is just
“A realistic mask.
An expert use of sfx.”
And no one thinks to ask
Why his nose is mostly gone
His eyes distended so
Why those scars distort his head.
They think that they all know.
His face is now just “So well done”
And gets him loud applause
An upside down reality
That celebrates his flaws
His limp, his teeth, his missing hand
Are flawless elements
Of detailed, skilled, and crafty work;
A Halloween pretense
They don’t know that he got dressed
Like any other day
And travelled here to walk around
And grin the night away
For him it’s Easter, Christmas Eve
And Birthdays all in one
He can find the light and shine
And finally have fun
Before five more and eighteen score
Of days need come to pass
And he can groundhog out again
And have some fun at last
He sees the human race as weak
So easy to deceive;
Monsters who take off their masks
On every Hallow’s eve
He knows it’s just instinctual
But cannot quite forgive
When all he wants to do is merely
Walk around and live
But once a year he gets to strut
And stroll and wave and smile
Before he goes back home and sleeps
Inside his domicile



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
The American
Apple Pie is becoming
The Apple Crumble


tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
Take the halo
And give it a half twist
Into a symbol for infinity
An 8
That can also be used
For handcuffs
And hang it up
Where you’ll never return

Take the feathers
From the wings
And use them to stuff pillows
For children’s fights
And deep fry what’s left

Take the robes
And cut them
Into flags of surrender
And let them wave goodbye
In every wind

Take the harp
And pawn it
Or melt it down
Or leave it lucky horseshoe empty
By using the strings
To cut cheese
Or hang pictures
It doesn’t matter

Go forward
With no light in the dark
Grounded
Naked
And silent



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
Our canon
Which art in comics
Hallowed be thy tales
O, cinema
Please film attempts
Not once
But ad infinitum
Give us more films presented well
As written in our back issues
As we forgive change that thrills and delights us
And lead us not into infighting
But deliver us from boredom
For thine is our childhood
Our memory and nostalgia
For ever and ever
Excelsior


tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
Sometimes it’s not so much
A burning of a bridge
As it is
Letting a bridge
That’s been on fire for a while
Finally collapse



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
They can’t stand to have a little
When they’d rather have a lot
They’d rather double what they’ve got
Not matter what they’ve got
I see it as a pestilence
This need for simply ‘more’
This hunger to increase it all
What are they going for?
To cumulate then square and cube
Their wealth until they die
Reflexively they clone their wealth
And then they multiply
Their populace of dollars, funds
Investments, shares, and stocks
If gravel were the currency
They’d be the king of rocks.
I get the need for power, sure
The want for opulence
But there’s a certain cutoff point
Where it stops making sense
Where it becomes a hoarder thing
A tipping point of need
A strange consuming passionate
Embodiment of greed
Where nothing is enough for them
And nothing satisfies
For very long or very deep
They watch their numbers rise
I think most people have a price
A place where they’ll relax
Some high, some low, they’ll settle in
And hopefully pay tax
But then there are the constant sharks
Will dollar signs for eyes
That just can’t stop accumulating
They metastasize
And tumour with their industry
And strangle with their wealth
And hoard offshore their more and more
While shredding global health
I can’t see a way to keep
These people from their goals
I just don’t get the lack of limit
Present in their souls



tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
The ideas that fall out of some mouths
That flop forward like dead giraffe tongues
Like dead butterflies
And old socks
Are depressing
And weigh me down
The gravity of them like gifted anchors
When I already can’t swim
They drop knowledge
Like servers drop trays of food
Everyone looks because of the loud noise
But it’s a disaster
The logic of their ideas is based on
an understanding of human emotion
And that understanding of human emotion
Is written in loneliness, suspicion
And cornered mouse
My empathy and sympathy flare like old war wounds
Wanting to comfort
But finding no way around the spikes
No reason works here
It’s like fighting fire with octopus
The forest is dark
And when there is nothing left to burn
They need to stop burning things
I want to understand
But I’m not immune to the poison
I feel mistrust
I feel fear
But I have no x-ray vision
No gift to show me the true nature of anything
So I go with hope
Wrapped around my core of darkness
I stuff pillows around my self-destruct
And try not to pollute the love I feel
Inside


tags
skonen_blades: (Default)
When’s the back-to-normal phase?
When again will normal days
Take place in all of our short lives?
And when that period arrives
Will “new” new normal changes be
Instated in this normalcy?
Can normalness exist again?
And can normality just……end?
I hope the rasa tabula
Affecting my amygdala
Is just a diving board for ‘new’
And that when we’ve all slithered through
These trying times and anxious weeks
And our new ‘back to normal’ speaks
That our new now is kinder and
Not just another ampersand
That schools teach every student some
Apocalyptic rules of thumb
And local markets multiply
And mega corporations die
Or at least be gifted leashes
To stop them filling ALL the niches
And many other ‘west coast’ dreams
The list is long. My mind, it screams.
I hope that after this is done
That we can once again have fun
That high fives, hugs, and touch returns
The contact that my body yearns
One fear I have that’s universal
Is “this is just a dress rehearsal”
That this is a just a trial run
Before a REALLY awful one
Comes out and through, across and down
And spreads through every single town
But that’s the now. This weird cocoon.
That we must all come out from soon.
But when we do, what change will be?
And what will our new normal be?



tags

Profile

skonen_blades: (Default)
skonen_blades

June 2023

S M T W T F S
    1 23
45 678910
11121314151617
18192021222324
252627282930 

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated 17 July 2025 14:11
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios