no longer writing in the third person

Rain, starting

Style

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

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.

Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41

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

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

like people can read 100 books and still not have the fire within them

okay this is interesting because pedagogies we have rn are not proper models

wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me

yes

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

Can I see

i am quite illiterate on producing technology

but really the thing should be autonomous

autonomy of learning

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. The conversation drifts to the pleasantness of warm lighting and whether anyone needs a smart home. I interrupt her to make a joke about the French Raj as he runs up the causeway. We stand there laughing. The fireworks go off behind him.

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

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

The old failed actor genuinely believed this girl was of a lesser race. He believed she shouldn't be talking with me, shouldn't be here at this party, shouldn't be here in this country. He wanted a white England. I didn't really challenge him on it. Sometimes I justify it with thoughts like I was drunk, or baffled, or it isn't an argument I'll win, or he can't hear me anyway, or whatever. I didn't argue with him. I just cut off his rant and left with a pathetic "In a bit."

A roll of 50s is one of the items he dumps onto my table during the search. Of course it is. He asks if I'm a delivery boy or a setter or this or that diamond related job. I keep saying no, I'm enjoying hearing all of these new words. Eventually I tell him that I work in film, which is kind of true. He asks where I'm filming. I'm not filming. He tells me that I can't be that good at it then. He then tells me that he made a film once, in the 80s. It was called Pimlico Rats.