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

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49

Imprint, memory, impact, representation, impression

Better Lift

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

in a post. I want to be remembered

13, H, grate

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

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

a version of this existed for a few months last year but it was static. it was HTML with writing and pictures and videos and sounds. i had this feeling that the code should be as important as the content, that structurally each piece in relation to each other piece shouldn't change, that the mazelike quality should emerge from me intricately arranging paths through it. like classic hypertext

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

but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos

Tue, 02 Dec 2025 11:29:50

thank you

i am quite confused, not quite getting the idea of it

its good short few pages

god "possessing" artists "possessing" people

i really havent

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

...

kind of mythopoesis

Her English is poor but she manages a brief introduction before getting to the point. She asks if she can touch his face. She's already reaching out and gesturing at it. Koreans are way too polite, he's just laughing awkwardly. I put my hand kind of between them and wave it to try and indicate no to her. I'm still in fucking mime mode. I say no, but it's not really to her, or to him, just no, in general. This is all too weird. Dejected, she departs with a comment about having never seen someone like him before.

It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

The Hatton geezer (fuck off) is emptying his pockets, searching for the silver rizlas he apparently has. He refuses to take one of mine (also silver) because the tobacco I'm giving him is already too much to ask. He tells me about the guy who can do 50g of Golden Virginia for a good price, the guy who every other man over 50 knows. I'm not interested.

i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate