The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.

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.

Slug

        13       |
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            H   |
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. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
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Like the tide, it comes in and it washes over the beach. It's beautiful. But like the tide it goes out, sometimes it goes out further than it ever has, it recedes back across the beach and further out beyond the horizon. The bare seabed opens up in front of you and all you can do is look at it.

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03

no longer writing in the third person

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 11:29:50

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

I Write Goodbye Letter

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Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

Better Lift

way too random but already engaging. i want to explore it

and the fake qualifier

not so on: yvf(wthw)