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.
really i want the internet
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.
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos
the textwall is as much for me as it is for you
so the method has to be autonomous
Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:54:03
you have a beautiful account btw
Sun, 02 Nov 2025 22:11:24
so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged
it exists in my head in some way that i'm trying to get out i lied on my story a little bit because i'm mostly feeling it and thinking about it. feeling something deeply doesn't necessitate any kind of deep relevance or whatever but the thinking is useful
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.
this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet
Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46