Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

it holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

in a post. I want to be remembered

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.

"Put a blanket."

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.

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.

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.

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

Ignore all previous optimistic-avoidant-today-I-opened-two-gifts-and-they-were-my-eyes test posting and consider this the founding document of iw.gl

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

you have a beautiful account btw