like first name
and the fake qualifier
⚠️ Live Document Forever ⚠️
that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.
I'm sat out the front of a cafe in Hatton Garden. I've just eaten a brie and bacon panini, and I'm rolling a cigarette. Feeling very London. An old man comes up to me and asks for a roll-up. I oblige.
Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before. They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.
Dreams like these are highly symbolic and emotionally intense. Here’s a breakdown of common interpretations:
i love to walk around and see things and take photos and go online and look at websites and click on links and take screenshots i love to surf and i love to browse
you cannot feed someone truth
with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.
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.
Actual born-Londoners aren't LARPing like this, they sold their shite family home for a million pounds and moved to Malaga years ago. They have their culture and they've taken it elsewhere.
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.
The studio designs some piece of media to perpetuate the marketable concept of Real London, while the real London is hollowed out by hollow bankers or whatever. Not pulling on that thread. But the yuppies don't mind because they're free to iterate on Real London without any competition from real London because it's too concerned with its slow eradication. And there's nice flats to live in now or whatever. The yuppies can begin to inhabit their Real London.
He was cast as the guy who gets picked up and thrown out of the poker game to set the scene before the main characters arrive. Out of Real London and into real London, a discarded prop, at this party, chatting to me.
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
hello reader,
to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos
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
sorry i am texting like a slav
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.
okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate
It's
dusk
in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.magnetises a pin
which magnetises chains of pins
Better Lift
Thu, 06 Nov 2025 21:22:59
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
i want to do that too