i love to walk around and see things and take photos and go online and look at websites and click on links and take screenshots i love to surf and i love to browse

we need to be deconstructing our identities

i am quite illiterate on producing technology

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

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.

but really the thing should be autonomous

kind of mythopoesis

After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

It's

dusk

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

Lift Analysis

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

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