i love it here

Sun, 02 Nov 2025 22:11:24

with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.

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.

hiding from the rain

wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me

but i respect your search

not their contents

brb i will read and reply sincerely

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

"Put a blanket."

I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.

i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me

magnetisation/form

you cannot feed someone truth

we can only engage in such a way

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

Picture

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49

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

Maybe, Jack, I'm doing this because I'm English?

The studio designs some piece of media to perpetuate the marketable concept of Real London, while the real London is hollowed out by hollow bankers or whatever. Not pulling on that thread. But the yuppies don't mind because they're free to iterate on Real London without any competition from real London because it's too concerned with its slow eradication. And there's nice flats to live in now or whatever. The yuppies can begin to inhabit their Real London.

the textwall is as much for me as it is for you

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.

so the method has to be autonomous

the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.

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

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.