something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
it is hopeful
no longer writing in the third person
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.