hiding from the rain
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've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank.
They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.
He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.
the site i am dreaming
thank you
you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak
a lot of what i've been doing has been some imaginary screenshot or recording of his website, something that could be found within it
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
so the method has to be autonomous
no longer writing in the third person
a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.
I created this site
.this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet