We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river.

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.

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever

but really the thing should be autonomous

i believe search always should be immersive, because whatever is pre planned and non consuming (what you are looking for is total engulfment by the spectre of the real), a joyous intensity, a flow of virtue

I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.

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.

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.

"Put a blanket."

so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged

Ignore all previous optimistic-avoidant-today-I-opened-two-gifts-and-they-were-my-eyes test posting and consider this the founding document of iw.gl

you have a beautiful account btw

no longer writing in the third person

you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak