There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

Better Lift

They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.

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.

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.

Picture


Worse Lift

It Will Get Lighter

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

in a post. I want to be remembered

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

"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."

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

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.


It Will Get Lighter

ion

plato