so at the end

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

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

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

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.

its performative

the textwall is as much for me as it is for you

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

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.

not their contents

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

this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet

okay this is interesting because pedagogies we have rn are not proper models

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

with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

you have a beautiful account btw

really i want the internet

the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.

"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

yes

I am below everything.

i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike