I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
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.
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.
I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting