13, H, grate

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"

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.

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

Style

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

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. 

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

1

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

what do you think my name is