barren land

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.

that looks like my instagram account

i hadn't considered this pedagogically or as a kind of personal knowledge management system (puke) at all but i suppose it is both of those things

i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then

plato

send your tumblr

god being the centre magnet

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.

we need to be deconstructing our identities

yeah

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.

what do you think my name is

He was a proper old-fashioned London geezer (cringe word, hate it, can't think of a better one, worst of all it's the correct word), kind of East Endy, kind of Real London, the kind you don't really meet but if you do it always feels like an uncanny immersive theatre experience. They're anachronistic. They only belong in the London collectively imagined by people who don't spend any time in it.

i haven't read 100 book s so i'm probably not getting the depth of all of what you're saying

thank you

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

you cannot feed someone truth

It Will Get Lighter

no like which do people call me

i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine

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