hiding from the rain
It's
dusk
in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.plato
i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine
abrar?
lol
bro i read nothing in my life
kind of mythopoesis
that looks like my instagram account
barren land
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.
The Hatton geezer (fuck off) is emptying his pockets, searching for the silver rizlas he apparently has. He refuses to take one of mine (also silver) because the tobacco I'm giving him is already too much to ask. He tells me about the guy who can do 50g of Golden Virginia for a good price, the guy who every other man over 50 knows. I'm not interested.
He was cast as the guy who gets picked up and thrown out of the poker game to set the scene before the main characters arrive. Out of Real London and into real London, a discarded prop, at this party, chatting to me.
god being the centre magnet
so magnetisation means the divine spirit acting thru u endowing you with its qualities
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
somewhere between instagram and chatgpt
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.
i love it here
as in