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

no longer writing in the third person

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

okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate

i am quite illiterate on producing technology

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

its performative

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

Today I felt like starting

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

a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

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

This is a website run by a narcissist who can't produce anything without the hope that it is seen and loved but can't act due to the fear of it being seen and hated. They immediately feel the need to ask Jack GPT to define whatever this feeling is in the hope that understanding it will mean control over it and control over it will mean that they can stop it.

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.

or never left