I'm getting bored and he can tell, so he shifts the topic towards me. He tells me he'd spotted me chatting to a girl earlier, a black girl, and asks what I thought of her, if I liked her. I mimed affirmatively.

"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

.

It Will Get Lighter

i believe search always should be immersive, because whatever is pre planned and non consuming (what you are looking for is total engulfment by the spectre of the real), a joyous intensity, a flow of virtue

so an active mazelike process

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somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

but i respect your search

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

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.

i am quite confused, not quite getting the idea of it

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.
I imagine that some lab-grown 29-year-old from Woking with a mind honed to identify individuals who fit the profile of Real Londoner (as conceived of by 50 opinion-polled racist builders and their wives in the Midlands) picks a stubborn local who can still somehow afford to live here and passes him along to some creative studio.

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

hiding from the rain

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

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

i am quite illiterate on producing technology

i really havent

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.

Hours staring at the ceiling, the wall, curling up into a ball. It seems annoyed with the light, it kind of recoils. It will get lighter. I wonder where it goes in the day.