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

The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

Style

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.

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

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

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.

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

IWGD

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 21:22:59

no longer writing in the third person

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

this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet

what do you think my name is