so at the end

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.

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.

like first name

is this you as well

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

i dont understand magnetisation

magnetises a pin

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

all that is to say

its performative

no like which do people call me

that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.

kind of mythopoesis

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

"Put a blanket."

brb i will read and reply sincerely

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

Worse Lift

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

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

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

we need to be deconstructing our identities

not their contents