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.
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.
is everyoneback on tumblr now
isaac newton
i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate
bro i read nothing in my life
have you read
The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
or never left
i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
He was cast as the guy who gets picked up and thrown out of the poker game to set the scene before the main characters arrive. Out of Real London and into real London, a discarded prop, at this party, chatting to me.
yes
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
lol yea
i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine
hello reader,
barren land