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

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.

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

She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.

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.

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

kind of mythopoesis

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

Lift Analysis

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

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

this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet

brb i will read and reply sincerely

it exists in my head in some way that i'm trying to get out i lied on my story a little bit because i'm mostly feeling it and thinking about it. feeling something deeply doesn't necessitate any kind of deep relevance or whatever but the thinking is useful

its good

Slug

i dont understand magnetisation

is everyoneback on tumblr now

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

hiding from the rain

i did until you asked which kind of gave it away

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.

...

propensity within someone

The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.

Picture

Hours staring at the ceiling, the wall, curling up into a ball. It seems annoyed with the light, it kind of recoils. It will get lighter. I wonder where it goes in the day.

a lot of what i've been doing has been some imaginary screenshot or recording of his website, something that could be found within it

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

a version of this existed for a few months last year but it was static. it was HTML with writing and pictures and videos and sounds. i had this feeling that the code should be as important as the content, that structurally each piece in relation to each other piece shouldn't change, that the mazelike quality should emerge from me intricately arranging paths through it. like classic hypertext