so at the end
really i want the internet
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
It's
dusk
in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged
the site i am dreaming
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
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.
no longer writing in the third person
isaac
Can I see
i am quite confused, not quite getting the idea of it
but really the thing should be autonomous