so magnetisation means the divine spirit acting thru u endowing you with its qualities

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

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

it is hopeful

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

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"

This is a website run by a narcissist who can't produce anything without the hope that it is seen and loved but can't act due to the fear of it being seen and hated. They immediately feel the need to ask Jack GPT to define whatever this feeling is in the hope that understanding it will mean control over it and control over it will mean that they can stop it.

"Put a blanket."

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.

I catch him on his way to the bar, telling him about this old racist failed actor that I'm avoiding. That I'm failing to confront. I get the sense he's avoiding people too. We get our drinks and find a corner. We chat for a bit. He's managing just fine.

to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos

He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

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


Thank you, Jack, for telling me I'm just as bad as the characters (actually they're people, if that means anything to you) that I'm writing about.

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

But seriously, thank you, Jack, for telling me that I could submit this to a high-level literary magazine or creative nonfiction outlet with some minor tweaks. I don't think I will do that.

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.

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.