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. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim 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.
the only things i have read are just excerpts and 1 dialogue by plato fully and mcluhan's medium is the massage but it cannot be considered a book
okay this is interesting because pedagogies we have rn are not proper models
I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.
Thank you, Jack
ion
kind of mythopoesis
so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged
i really havent
what do you mean
it exists in my head in some way that i'm trying to get out i lied on my story a little bit because i'm mostly feeling it and thinking about it. feeling something deeply doesn't necessitate any kind of deep relevance or whatever but the thinking is useful
The Hatton geezer (fuck off) reminds me of this old failed actor who I'd met at a party a few years ago, another man out of time and out of place. This actor had scored a minor role in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and never really let go of it, had gone on to build his whole identity around it. I can't really blame him.
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
Mon, 01 Dec 2025 23:38:15
it holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!
what do you think my name is
sorry i am texting like a slav