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.
I am below everything.
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
the textwall is as much for me as it is for you
really i want the internet
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 am quite illiterate on producing technology
i see a website
Their voices are saying they haven't and shouldn't fuck but want to so bad, or have fucked and can't again but want to so bad, or something like that. Would this be easier if they were birds? Incel kind of question... I'm not following the conversation, but I'm still listening. He's talking in this slightly begging way. It's a way of talking that asks for pity, like he's already tried appealing to every other one of her sensibilities. Incel kind of observation... Maybe he just talks like that, in some upspeak derivative. Haha unless?
a version of this existed for a few months last year but it was static. it was HTML with writing and pictures and videos and sounds. i had this feeling that the code should be as important as the content, that structurally each piece in relation to each other piece shouldn't change, that the mazelike quality should emerge from me intricately arranging paths through it. like classic hypertext
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
send your tumblr
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
as in
was it worth it