The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
i want to do that too
the only things i have read are just excerpts and 1 dialogue by plato fully and mcluhan's medium is the massage but it cannot be considered a book
bro i read nothing in my life
He was a proper old-fashioned London geezer (cringe word, hate it, can't think of a better one, worst of all it's the correct word), kind of East Endy, kind of Real London, the kind you don't really meet but if you do it always feels like an uncanny immersive theatre experience. They're anachronistic. They only belong in the London collectively imagined by people who don't spend any time in it.
i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then
yeah people dont get it they assume its ahnaf
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
was it worth it
lol yea
i really havent
i was tempted to lie about my name
its good
god "possessing" artists "possessing" people
which magnetises chains of pins
like magnets
not their contents
no longer writing in the third person
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.
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.
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
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