Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before. They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
i haven't read 100 book s so i'm probably not getting the depth of all of what you're saying
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.
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
no longer writing in the third person
division of reality is straying away from it
lol yea
ion
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
isaac