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.

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

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.

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

kind of mythopoesis

Their voices are saying they haven't and shouldn't fuck but want to so bad, or have fucked and can't again but want to so bad, or something like that. Would this be easier if they were birds? Incel kind of question... I'm not following the conversation, but I'm still listening. He's talking in this slightly begging way. It's a way of talking that asks for pity, like he's already tried appealing to every other one of her sensibilities. Incel kind of observation... Maybe he just talks like that, in some upspeak derivative. Haha unless?

Lift Analysis

Better Lift

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


a version of this existed for a few months last year but it was static. it was HTML with writing and pictures and videos and sounds. i had this feeling that the code should be as important as the content, that structurally each piece in relation to each other piece shouldn't change, that the mazelike quality should emerge from me intricately arranging paths through it. like classic hypertext

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

I Write Goodbye Letter

way too random but already engaging. i want to explore it

the only things i have read are just excerpts and 1 dialogue by plato fully and mcluhan's medium is the massage but it cannot be considered a book

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.


the site i am dreaming



13, H, grate

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting