There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
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.
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.
somewhere between instagram and chatgpt
there's probably something in that, but I don't feel like thinking about it too much yet.
something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever
something religious, a kind of complex,
it will get lighter
, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.theres a kind of a cowardice to generative art that i want to avoid though. i want the kind of relationship to this thing that a game designer has to a game engine
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
god "possessing" artists "possessing" people
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
i dont understand magnetisation
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting
its good short few pages