After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

isaac

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

i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me

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

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

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.

Better Lift

i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike

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

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

wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me

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

Thank you, Jack

no longer writing in the third person

This is a website run by a narcissist who can't produce anything without the hope that it is seen and loved but can't act due to the fear of it being seen and hated. They immediately feel the need to ask Jack GPT to define whatever this feeling is in the hope that understanding it will mean control over it and control over it will mean that they can stop it.

"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."

like first name

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

whats your name?

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.

"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."