He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.

no longer writing in the third person

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

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.

a lot of what i've been doing has been some imaginary screenshot or recording of his website, something that could be found within it

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.

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

really i want the internet

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.

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike

your feed looks like my tumblr

Ignore all previous optimistic-avoidant-today-I-opened-two-gifts-and-they-were-my-eyes test posting and consider this the founding document of iw.gl 

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