Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
Hours staring at the ceiling, the wall, curling up into a ball. It seems annoyed with the light, it kind of recoils. It will get lighter. I wonder where it goes in the day.
or never left
i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine
yeah
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
the site i am dreaming
in a post. I want to be remembered
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
really i want the internet
stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever
that looks like my instagram account
And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.
its good short few pages
i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls
i was tempted to lie about my name
and the fake qualifier
My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.
We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. 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.