Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

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.

in a post. I want to be remembered

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

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.

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

Imprint, memory, impact, representation, impression

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

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

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 11:29:50

i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me

but really the thing should be autonomous

13, H, grate

"Put a blanket."

so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged