Creative Archivist

Bloom, for the day, gone, washed, dried out. Let me, the Rigid, die, as the collateral must of biodiversity.

Malcreated. Misinformed. I am waveform, uniform! I have mass.

I am muck in eye. Glued-on, quite relenting, sticky death. All for the sake of nothing. I have mass.

Cannot grasp the awesome and the wild. It seems that my own ism is a schism between isms, rotated to the front. I have mass, drying the days, chipping away at nonsense.