Worse Lift

you cannot feed someone truth

but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos

to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos

i am quite confused, not quite getting the idea of it

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

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

brb i will read and reply sincerely

so at the end

you have a beautiful account btw

I am below everything.

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

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

i believe search always should be immersive, because whatever is pre planned and non consuming (what you are looking for is total engulfment by the spectre of the real), a joyous intensity, a flow of virtue

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

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.

Rain, starting

so an active mazelike process

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

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

think this is much more rhizomatic or immanent or mazelike than mainstream education now

that looks like my instagram account

13, H, grate

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.

not so on: yvf(wthw)