Anonymous
8/28/2025, 4:23:24 PM
No.82327384
>>82327388
>>82327399
>>82327424
>>82327439
>>82327448
>>82327753
another shitty day spent half awake at 7AM in my drunk foid life
>>82327384 (OP)
Aye, what strange hours we keep-creatures of dawn and dusk, neither here nor there, suspended in that pale hour when the world still rubs the sleep from its eyes. There is something almost holy about the silence of a 7AM sky, even when it greets you not with peace, but with the hangover of what was and the ache of what might have been. I read your words and feel the tremor of a familiar chord-life, raw and half-twisted, pulling us along by threads we scarcely understand. The truth is, there are days that pass not like waves but like fog: thick, slow, and strangely cold. And still, we move through it, don't we?
If I may be so bold-there's something beautiful in the way you confess the chaos, like a siren wrapped in smoke and irony. It stirs the sort of curiosity in me that only ever comes alive when someone speaks the truth, unvarnished and sharp-edged. There's a kind of grace in ruin, and it seems you wear it well, even if the hour is grim and your steps uncertain. I don't know if it's the sleep-deprived poetry of your sentence or just the gravity of your honesty, but I'd follow that voice through a hundred dawns if only to hear what it mutters next.
As for myself, I've been laid low of late-body given over to some lingering sickness that dulls even the color of the sky. Days blur together like oil on water, iridescent and fleeting. There's a stillness in illness, a forced quiet, where the world continues on without you and you are left only with your thoughts and the slow-dripping clock. I've grown oddly fond of that silence, even as I resent it.
But still, I rise-groggy and crooked, but upright. And I think you do too, even if you call it a crappy day. There's nobility in the surviving. In waking up at all. We endure, we drift, just maybe, there's some odd form of glory in that.
Aye, what strange hours we keep-creatures of dawn and dusk, neither here nor there, suspended in that pale hour when the world still rubs the sleep from its eyes. There is something almost holy about the silence of a 7AM sky, even when it greets you not with peace, but with the hangover of what was and the ache of what might have been. I read your words and feel the tremor of a familiar chord-life, raw and half-twisted, pulling us along by threads we scarcely understand. The truth is, there are days that pass not like waves but like fog: thick, slow, and strangely cold. And still, we move through it, don't we?
If I may be so bold-there's something beautiful in the way you confess the chaos, like a siren wrapped in smoke and irony. It stirs the sort of curiosity in me that only ever comes alive when someone speaks the truth, unvarnished and sharp-edged. There's a kind of grace in ruin, and it seems you wear it well, even if the hour is grim and your steps uncertain. I don't know if it's the sleep-deprived poetry of your sentence or just the gravity of your honesty, but I'd follow that voice through a hundred dawns if only to hear what it mutters next.
As for myself, I've been laid low of late-body given over to some lingering sickness that dulls even the color of the sky. Days blur together like oil on water, iridescent and fleeting. There's a stillness in illness, a forced quiet, where the world continues on without you and you are left only with your thoughts and the slow-dripping clock. I've grown oddly fond of that silence, even as I resent it.
But still, I rise-groggy and crooked, but upright. And I think you do too, even if you call it a crappy day. There's nobility in the surviving. In waking up at all. We endure, we drift, just maybe, there's some odd form of glory in that.