Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

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

with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.

I am below everything.

Picture

no longer writing in the third person

"Put a blanket."

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

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

magnetises a pin

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.

god being the centre magnet

its good

isaac newton

thank you

whats your name?

what do you mean

much more tactility