but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos

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.

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 am below everything.

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak

okay this is interesting because pedagogies we have rn are not proper models

Style

i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17

it is hopeful

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

I'm in a crowded lift and a girl I've never met tells me she thinks she might love me.
The lift won't stop at any floor, and I can't talk in front of all these people.

that looks like my instagram account

in a way what we are really interested in with pedagogy is the magnetisation

its performative

plato

your feed looks like my tumblr

i have read not even 1 book

isaac

i really havent

magnetises a pin