isaac

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 struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything

Worse Lift

Style

It Will Get Lighter

Better Lift

currently

a lot of what i've been doing has been some imaginary screenshot or recording of his website, something that could be found within it

so at the end

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.

I Write Goodbye Letter

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

.

no like which do people call me

i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine

much more tactility

like first name

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

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.