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.

FOUNDING DOCUMENT

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

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

.

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.

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.

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

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

Style

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.