13, H, grate

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."

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.

Imprint, memory, impact, representation, impression

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49

it is hopeful

Style

It Will Get Lighter

wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me

yes

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

i love to walk around and see things and take photos and go online and look at websites and click on links and take screenshots i love to surf and i love to browse

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.