ahnaf is it worth reading all those books

i did until you asked which kind of gave it away

ahnaf abrar

we need to be deconstructing our identities

no like which do people call me

like first name

bro i read nothing in my life

i really havent

you know who you are. no more time, not like

1

. way too specific.

and so on. not wanting the rhyming / clanging

yeah people dont get it they assume its ahnaf

confused - is it the tide or its absense? I still like where I was going with it. anyway, real reader know this site is the note.

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.

Lift Analysis

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.

i want to do that too

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.

and the fake qualifier

bro i read nothing in my life

part of an old note. It will get lighter.

i have read not even 1 book

yeah

sorry i am texting like a slav

We look out over the river to a block of luxury flats built on the site of some old docks. It would be nice to live right there. Yes. The conversation drifts to the pleasantness of warm lighting and whether anyone needs a smart home. I interrupt her to make a joke about the French Raj as he runs up the causeway. We stand there laughing. The fireworks go off behind him.

fw

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.

My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.

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