Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting
no longer writing in the third person
currently
we can only engage in such a way
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03
amazing hopefully this was all legible and frankly i might be going very off board but you seemed interesting
i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
It's
dusk
in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.brb i will read and reply sincerely
autonomy of learning
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.
I'm sat out the front of a cafe in Hatton Garden. I've just eaten a brie and bacon panini, and I'm rolling a cigarette. Feeling very London. An old man comes up to me and asks for a roll-up. I oblige.
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.
Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before. They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.
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.
Thank you, Jack
all that is to say