They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.


She says something that isn't really right but isn't really wrong. I'm not taking in their words any more, just their voices, trying to get a feel for whatever is going on between them. I'm imagining what it's like for them in this delicate situation, what I would say if it were me. She has that perfect upper-class accent, and she's using whatever upper-class tact that comes with it to navigate this. Style. They can't be together, but their voices are betraying them.

i love to walk around and see things and take photos and go online and look at websites and click on links and take screenshots i love to surf and i love to browse

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too. 

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It Will Get Lighter

It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

it is hopeful

kind of mythopoesis

no longer writing in the third person

plato

it holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!

plato


the only things i have read are just excerpts and 1 dialogue by plato fully and mcluhan's medium is the massage but it cannot be considered a book

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

like first name

really i want the internet

the textwall is as much for me as it is for you

lol yea