sorry i am texting like a slav
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.
not so on: yvf(wthw)
Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17
you know who you are. no more time, not like
1
. way too specific.a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.
I created this site
.something religious, a kind of complex,
it will get lighter
, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
"Put a blanket."
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.
no longer writing in the third person
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.
Mon, 01 Dec 2025 23:38:15
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'm getting bored and he can tell, so he shifts the topic towards me. He tells me he'd spotted me chatting to a girl earlier, a black girl, and asks what I thought of her, if I liked her. I mimed affirmatively.
"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
Sun, 02 Nov 2025 23:49:08
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.
it holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!
hiding from the rain
which magnetises chains of pins
we need to be deconstructing our identities
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
December 2025