13       |
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            H   |
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. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
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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.

Imprint, memory, impact, representation, impression

there's probably something in that, but I don't feel like thinking about it too much yet.

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.

It Will Get Lighter

Thank you, Jack

in a post. I want to be remembered

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:54:03

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

no longer writing in the third person

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 21:22:59