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.

It Will Get Lighter

And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.

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.

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