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.
like magnets
The slug lives in my bathroom. I only see it in the early hours of the morning, when I'm not quite right.
and the fake qualifier
the only things i have read are just excerpts and 1 dialogue by plato fully and mcluhan's medium is the massage but it cannot be considered a book
ahnaf is it worth reading all those books
send link
we need to be deconstructing our identities
i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then
December 2025
i want to do that too
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
have you read
was it worth it
is this you as well
its good
Better Lift
that looks like my instagram account
no i haven't really read anything
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.
no longer writing in the third person
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.
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
your feed looks like my tumblr