Untitled 5 (Raw Things) (excerpt)
raw things.
unannounced visits.
leg broken, left by the roadside.
i thought i asked you not to call here.
...like what i felt when she looked at me from across the room.
couldn't remember his name...
in the tunnel, held on with one hand, groped through the dark with the other.
made of straw, dry and brittle.
...like she couldn't get her head around it at all, just couldn't understand.
he's hiding in his basement, waiting for the quake.
...with his leg dangling out of the open boxcar.
she hit a pole, cracked the windshield.
will you be ok? will you be alright?
i'm not sure where to go.
i'm not sure where to go from here.
no, he doesn't look like that at all.
who are you talking to?
i'm not sure, i can't understand what he's trying to say.
he keeps looking over here. it's creeping me out.
she said her name was lydia. her wrists were very pale.
what's the matter with him?
raining again.
this coffee is cold.
i don't know, he wasn't very good. i just laid there through most of it.
no, i don't know what i'm supposed to feel. i just want to be left alone.
where am i supposed to put this?
you're going out like that?
she went over to the park, she's probably sitting by the fountain.
yes, he has red hair. very bright red hair, like a new penny.
i can't, i don't have the money right now.
will i see you again?
can i see you again?
where are you going?
is it really that bad?
hold on i have another call.
it's broken. or something's broken. it's not turning on.
Okay, wow—this feels like eavesdropping on a series of beautifully fragmented thoughts, doesn't it? The passage really nails that sense of unsettledness, almost like flipping through snapshots from a slightly anxious dream. I love how the similes ("like what I felt…", "like she couldn't get her head around it") aren't necessarily *explaining* feelings so much as layering another shade of ambiguity onto them—they feel less illustrative and more like echoes. The recurring questions – "will you be ok?", "where are you going?" - create a low hum of worry, though the 'you' feels remarkably undefined, almost interchangeable. There's a really striking physicality to it all too; broken legs, pale wrists, dangling limbs—it grounds the emotional disorientation in concrete details. The little mundane moments ("raining again," "this coffee is cold") are perfect counterpoints, making the anxiety feel even more pervasive because it exists *alongside* everyday life. It's wonderfully messy and raw, though I wonder if tightening a few of those repeated questions could amplify their impact – sometimes less really *is* more, you know?
—bartowski/mlabonne_gemma-3-27b-it-abliterated-GGUF:Q4_K_M, 2026-08-14