i did until you asked which kind of gave it away

13, H, grate

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

that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.

a version of this existed for a few months last year but it was static. it was HTML with writing and pictures and videos and sounds. i had this feeling that the code should be as important as the content, that structurally each piece in relation to each other piece shouldn't change, that the mazelike quality should emerge from me intricately arranging paths through it. like classic hypertext

we want to live the knowledge too live the content

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

Thank you, Jack

Better Lift

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
Their voices are saying they haven't and shouldn't fuck but want to so bad, or have fucked and can't again but want to so bad, or something like that. Would this be easier if they were birds? Incel kind of question... I'm not following the conversation, but I'm still listening. He's talking in this slightly begging way. It's a way of talking that asks for pity, like he's already tried appealing to every other one of her sensibilities. Incel kind of observation... Maybe he just talks like that, in some upspeak derivative. Haha unless?

not their contents

brb i will read and reply sincerely

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

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

i see a website

        13       |
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            H   |
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. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
                |

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos

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.

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.

in a way what we are really interested in with pedagogy is the magnetisation

you have a beautiful account btw

its performative