It Will Get Lighter
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
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.
no longer writing in the third person
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.
Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life
this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet
we want to live the knowledge too live the content
Sun, 02 Nov 2025 22:11:24
