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

part of an old note. It will get lighter.

My inability to confront the old racist failed actor is distracting me. I decide not to tell her about it.

2 (actually index). two is company

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.

13, H, grate

you know who you are. no more time, not like

1

. way too specific.

Like the tide, it comes in and it washes over the beach. It's beautiful. But like the tide it goes out, sometimes it goes out further than it ever has, it recedes back across the beach and further out beyond the horizon. The bare seabed opens up in front of you and all you can do is look at it.

Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41

I Write Goodbye Letter

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

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

The studio designs some piece of media to perpetuate the marketable concept of Real London, while the real London is hollowed out by hollow bankers or whatever. Not pulling on that thread. But the yuppies don't mind because they're free to iterate on Real London without any competition from real London because it's too concerned with its slow eradication. And there's nice flats to live in now or whatever. The yuppies can begin to inhabit their Real London.

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

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

yes

"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."

Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before. They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.

He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.

A roll of 50s is one of the items he dumps onto my table during the search. Of course it is. He asks if I'm a delivery boy or a setter or this or that diamond related job. I keep saying no, I'm enjoying hearing all of these new words. Eventually I tell him that I work in film, which is kind of true. He asks where I'm filming. I'm not filming. He tells me that I can't be that good at it then. He then tells me that he made a film once, in the 80s. It was called Pimlico Rats.

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

Lift Analysis

which magnetises chains of pins

your feed looks like my tumblr

i was tempted to lie about my name