stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
there's probably something in that, but I don't feel like thinking about it too much yet.
it exists in my head in some way that i'm trying to get out i lied on my story a little bit because i'm mostly feeling it and thinking about it. feeling something deeply doesn't necessitate any kind of deep relevance or whatever but the thinking is useful
but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos
this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet
you have a beautiful account btw
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
Thu, 06 Nov 2025 21:22:59
Better Lift
you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak
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.
Thank you, Jack
i am quite confused, not quite getting the idea of it
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.
in a way what we are really interested in with pedagogy is the magnetisation
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.
He was a proper old-fashioned London geezer (cringe word, hate it, can't think of a better one, worst of all it's the correct word), kind of East Endy, kind of Real London, the kind you don't really meet but if you do it always feels like an uncanny immersive theatre experience. They're anachronistic. They only belong in the London collectively imagined by people who don't spend any time in it.
i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything