We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.

wait what is that

stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time

was it worth it

and the fake qualifier

i really havent

send your tumblr

idk

no i haven't really read anything

feel you

whats your name?

you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak

i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then

yeah

isaac newton

what do you think my name is

its good

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17

ion

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 religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

Rain, starting