We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river.
something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever
in a post. I want to be remembered
...
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.
a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.
I created this site
.wait what is that
The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
the site i am dreaming
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
Sun, 02 Nov 2025 22:11:24
with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.