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like first name
"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
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.
They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
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.
but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos
The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank.
brb i will read and reply sincerely