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.

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

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.

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

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

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

Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41

13, H, grate

this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet

to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos

which magnetises chains of pins

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17

autonomy of learning

god "possessing" artists "possessing" people

Above and in front two birds are darting in and out of a tree. Sometimes they collide to fight or maybe mate, but I can't really make it out in the low light. It's just after

dusk