Like the tide, it comes in and it washes over the beach. It's beautiful. But like the tide it goes out, sometimes it goes out further than it ever has, it recedes back across the beach and further out beyond the horizon. The bare seabed opens up in front of you and all you can do is look at it.

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.

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.

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

Lift Analysis

no longer writing in the third person

I am below everything.

sorry i am texting like a slav

plato

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

autonomy of learning

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

so at the end

feel you

i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls

you have a beautiful account btw

i have read not even 1 book

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

what do you think my name is

have you read