i really havent

that looks like my instagram account

not so on: yvf(wthw)

i love it here

yeah

your feed looks like my tumblr

fw

send your tumblr

its good short few pages

isaac

idk

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.

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

Today I felt like starting

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.

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

1

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

Style

I Write Goodbye Letter

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.

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. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.

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

like magnets