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

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.

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.

brb i will read and reply sincerely

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

Thank you, Jack

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"

the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.

but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos

The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.