Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

in a post. I want to be remembered

She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.

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.

Better Lift

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

Picture

and the fake qualifier

we can only engage in such a way

division of reality is straying away from it

my watchlater reached its limit years ago and now i have to create a playlist for each new topic im interested in but it is incredibly hard to create the taxonomy of knowledge because everything seems to be everything else because at the end it is what you get from it that matters not what is given

i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls

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.

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:54:03

okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate

Thank you, Jack