And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.

I am below everything.

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.

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

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.

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

a version of this existed for a few months last year but it was static. it was HTML with writing and pictures and videos and sounds. i had this feeling that the code should be as important as the content, that structurally each piece in relation to each other piece shouldn't change, that the mazelike quality should emerge from me intricately arranging paths through it. like classic hypertext

Worse Lift

the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.

"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."

Style