like people can read 100 books and still not have the fire within them
I'm in a crowded lift and a girl I've never met tells me she thinks she might love me.
The lift won't stop at any floor, and I can't talk in front of all these people.
i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting
i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls
currently
My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.
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.
you have a beautiful account btw
Better Lift
The only real Londoner remaining is old, bitter, kept around for entertainment, defined by tropes from 30+ years ago. They play gangsters in films, or they work in a pie and mash shop, or they go on Business Insider's YouTube channel to tell you about their crimes. And they somehow still find the time to spend all day hanging about cafes and pubs for you to bump into, to remind you of Real London.
with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.
in a post. I want to be remembered
...
much more tactility
Like the tide, it comes in and it washes over the beach. It's beautiful. But like the tide it goes out, sometimes it goes out further than it ever has, it recedes back across the beach and further out beyond the horizon. The bare seabed opens up in front of you and all you can do is look at it.