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

so at the end

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 23:49:08

Better Lift

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 11:29:50

isaac

i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything

I'm in a crowded lift and a girl I've never met tells me she thinks she might love me. The lift won't stop at any floor, and I can't talk in front of all these people.

ahnaf abrar

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

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.

this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet

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.

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

not their contents

magnetisation/form

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

Style

i don't really want to be associated with that one for some reason

We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river.

we need to be deconstructing our identities

We look out over the river to a block of luxury flats built on the site of some old docks. It would be nice to live right there. Yes.

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

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.

no longer writing in the third person

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

have you read

feel you