but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos
I am below everything.
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
in a post. I want to be remembered
Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03
I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?
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?
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Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41
something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever
I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.
we need to be deconstructing our identities
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.
something religious, a kind of complex,
it will get lighter
, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.the only things i have read are just excerpts and 1 dialogue by plato fully and mcluhan's medium is the massage but it cannot be considered a book
what do you think my name is
i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then
We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.