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

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.

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

autonomy of learning

I am below everything.

this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet

you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak

the site i am dreaming

"Put a blanket."

It Will Get Lighter

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

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

...

not so on: yvf(wthw)

...

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.