Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

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

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

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.

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

Rain, starting

a lot of what i've been doing has been some imaginary screenshot or recording of his website, something that could be found within it

        13       |
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            H   |
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. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
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13, H, grate

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.

It Will Get Lighter

no longer writing in the third person

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

Style

Imprint, memory, impact, representation, impression

i have read not even 1 book

so at the end