all that is to say

its good short few pages

so i or you can author smaller fragments that get arranged

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

Can I see

you cannot feed someone truth

propensity within someone

Better Lift

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

no longer writing in the third person

we want to live the knowledge too live the content

brb i will read and reply sincerely

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

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.

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

its performative

"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."

really i want the internet

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

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.

part of an old note. It will get lighter.

so an active mazelike process

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.

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

Rain, starting

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.