Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events
organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin
bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before.
They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.
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.
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry
class