i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine
that looks like my instagram account
magnetisation basically means the induction of divine form unto you
send your tumblr
idk
i have read not even 1 book
i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate
i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then
the site i am dreaming
i really havent
its good
December 2025
its good short few pages
your feed looks like my tumblr
god "possessing" artists "possessing" people
...
Better Lift
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.
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in 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.
"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."
I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.
The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
I imagine that some lab-grown 29-year-old from Woking with a mind honed to identify individuals who fit the profile of Real Londoner (as conceived of by 50 opinion-polled racist builders and their wives in the Midlands) picks a stubborn local who can still somehow afford to live here and passes him along to some creative studio.
Can I see
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
not so on: yvf(wthw)
"Put a blanket."