i am quite illiterate on producing technology

I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank.

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

Style

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

Thank you, Jack

Can I see

13, H, grate

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

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

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

I'm in a crowded lift and a girl I've never met tells me she thinks she might love me.
The lift won't stop at any floor, and I can't talk in front of all these people.

so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

abrar?

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 see a website