Better Lift
I'm in a crowded lift and a girl I've never met tells me she thinks she might love me.
The lift won't stop at any floor, and I can't talk in front of all these people.
I am below everything.
no longer writing in the third person
"Put a blanket."
it is hopeful
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
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.
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.
a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.
I created this site
.I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.
It's
dusk
in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox."No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
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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.