i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

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.

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 11:29:50

hiding from the rain

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 23:49:08

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.

i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine

is everyoneback on tumblr now

plato

your feed looks like my tumblr

barren land

...

i have read not even 1 book

or never left

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03

It Will Get Lighter

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 21:54:03

i hadn't considered this pedagogically or as a kind of personal knowledge management system (puke) at all but i suppose it is both of those things

there's probably something in that, but I don't feel like thinking about it too much yet.

lol yea

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.

Above and in front two birds are darting in and out of a tree. Sometimes they collide to fight or maybe mate, but I can't really make it out in the low light. It's just after

dusk

, I have nothing to do, I'm watching them, trying to figure it out.

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.

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 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.
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.

nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class