like people can read 100 books and still not have the fire within them

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

13, H, grate

Today I felt like starting

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.

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.

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate

propensity within someone

its performative

magnetisation/form

not their contents

okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate

you cannot feed someone truth