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.
much more tactility
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
but really the thing should be autonomous
it exists in my head in some way that i'm trying to get out i lied on my story a little bit because i'm mostly feeling it and thinking about it. feeling something deeply doesn't necessitate any kind of deep relevance or whatever but the thinking is useful
i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything
i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate
"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.
She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.
I am below everything.
"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
Can I see
Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03