I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.
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
...
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
Hours staring at the ceiling, the wall, curling up into a ball. It seems annoyed with the light, it kind of recoils. It will get lighter. I wonder where it goes in the day.
The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
...
Like the tide, it comes in and it washes over the beach. It's beautiful. But like the tide it goes out, sometimes it goes out further than it ever has, it recedes back across the beach and further out beyond the horizon. The bare seabed opens up in front of you and all you can do is look at it.
hello reader,
we need to be deconstructing our identities
like first name
I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.
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.
all that is to say
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting
much more tactility
I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank.
no longer writing in the third person
have you read