you know who you are. no more time, not like

1

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

Style

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

no longer writing in the third person

something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever

Above and in front two birds are darting in and out of a tree. Sometimes they collide to fight or maybe mate, but I can't really make it out in the low light. It's just after

dusk

Their voices are saying they haven't and shouldn't fuck but want to so bad, or have fucked and can't again but want to so bad, or something like that. Would this be easier if they were birds? Incel kind of question... I'm not following the conversation, but I'm still listening. He's talking in this slightly begging way. It's a way of talking that asks for pity, like he's already tried appealing to every other one of her sensibilities. Incel kind of observation... Maybe he just talks like that, in some upspeak derivative. Haha unless?

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49

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

Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41

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.

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

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

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

i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then

He was cast as the guy who gets picked up and thrown out of the poker game to set the scene before the main characters arrive. Out of Real London and into real London, a discarded prop, at this party, chatting to me.

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.

Mon, 01 Dec 2025 23:38:15

you have a beautiful account btw

we need to be deconstructing our identities

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.

Picture

yes

ahnaf is it worth reading all those books

hiding from the rain