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.

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

.

It Will Get Lighter

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

brb i will read and reply sincerely

13, H, grate

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged

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

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.

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.

or never left

yeah

like first name

i did until you asked which kind of gave it away