We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river.
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.
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.
I created this site
.like people can read 100 books and still not have the fire within them
your feed looks like my tumblr
you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak
as in
so an active mazelike process
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
that looks like my instagram account
plato
god "possessing" artists "possessing" people
Can I see
no like which do people call me