wait what is that

no longer writing in the third person

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

in a post. I want to be remembered

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

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.

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

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.

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.

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

Better Lift

"Put a blanket."

okay this is interesting because pedagogies we have rn are not proper models