"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.
I created this site
.There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
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
I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.
something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever
"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting
Better Lift
Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49
Tue, 02 Dec 2025 11:29:50
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
somewhere between instagram and chatgpt