One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

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.

Imprint, memory, impact, representation, impression

I am below everything.

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

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

It Will Get Lighter

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

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.

something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever



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

Thank you, Jack

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