Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:27:13

It Will Get Lighter

"Put a blanket."

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

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

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

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.

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

no longer writing in the third person

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

i love it here

so the method has to be autonomous

okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate

division of reality is straying away from it

all that is to say

you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak