kind of mythopoesis
This is a website run by a narcissist who can't produce anything without the hope that it is seen and loved but can't act due to the fear of it being seen and hated. They immediately feel the need to ask Jack GPT to define whatever this feeling is in the hope that understanding it will mean control over it and control over it will mean that they can stop it.
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
i am quite illiterate on producing technology
"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"
what do you mean
ahnaf abrar
fw
like first name
stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time
its good
is everyoneback on tumblr now
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.
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
yeah people dont get it they assume its ahnaf
and the fake qualifier
i sat down to eat my peasant dinner but i thought it was a song you sent so i didn’t watch it then
way too random but already engaging. i want to explore it
barren land
the site i am dreaming
send link
i did until you asked which kind of gave it away
what do you think my name is
whats your name?
Thank you for telling me that I'm failing to see how I'm reproducing the dynamics I'm trying to critique by only describing my Korean colleague / fresh meat and the black girl in relation to others and myself.
abrar?
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.
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.
god "possessing" artists "possessing" people
ion
isaac newton