This is a website run by a narcissist who can't produce anything without the hope that it is seen and loved but can't act due to the fear of it being seen and hated. They immediately feel the need to ask Jack GPT to define whatever this feeling is in the hope that understanding it will mean control over it and control over it will mean that they can stop it.

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.

Style

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 23:49:08

confused - is it the tide or its absense? I still like where I was going with it. anyway, real reader know this site is the note.
2 (actually index). two is company

not so on: yvf(wthw)

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

.

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

you know who you are. no more time, not like

1

. way too specific.

bro i read nothing in my life

it is hopeful

...

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.

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

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

He was a proper old-fashioned London geezer (cringe word, hate it, can't think of a better one, worst of all it's the correct word), kind of East Endy, kind of Real London, the kind you don't really meet but if you do it always feels like an uncanny immersive theatre experience. They're anachronistic. They only belong in the London collectively imagined by people who don't spend any time in it.

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

I imagine that some lab-grown 29-year-old from Woking with a mind honed to identify individuals who fit the profile of Real Londoner (as conceived of by 50 opinion-polled racist builders and their wives in the Midlands) picks a stubborn local who can still somehow afford to live here and passes him along to some creative studio.

and so on. not wanting the rhyming / clanging

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:54:03