Today I felt like starting

"Put a blanket."

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.

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

Worse Lift

I am below everything.

the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."

We look out over the river to a block of luxury flats built on the site of some old docks. It would be nice to live right there. Yes.

we need to be deconstructing our identities

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

feel you

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

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