as in

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


Thank you, Jack, for telling me I'm just as bad as the characters (actually they're people, if that means anything to you) that I'm writing about.

And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.

As I'm trying to tell my Korean colleague / fresh meat that this is abnormal, that most people in England aren't like this, the host of the party emerges from the bathroom to a roar of laughter and applause. He's a fat middle aged Frenchman and he's changed into traditional Indian dress and a turban. He looks fucking ridiculous. I try to back away, to avoid the inevitable photo of me in this moment that will one day appear to ruin my life, but everyone is crowding around, trapping me in the middle of it.

what do you think my name is

Hours staring at the ceiling, the wall, curling up into a ball. It seems annoyed with the light, it kind of recoils. It will get lighter. I wonder where it goes in the day.

i don't really want to be associated with that one for some reason

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

1

. way too specific.

or never left

was it worth it

its good

have you read

send link

The Hatton geezer (fuck off) reminds me of this old failed actor who I'd met at a party a few years ago, another man out of time and out of place. This actor had scored a minor role in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and never really let go of it, had gone on to build his whole identity around it. I can't really blame him.

autonomy of learning

Slug

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