Thank you, Jack

but really the thing should be autonomous

you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak

we can only engage in such a way

like people can read 100 books and still not have the fire within them

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

brb i will read and reply sincerely

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17

really i want the internet

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

And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.

It's loud and he's gone deaf in one ear, so I don't think he's really hearing anything I'm trying to say. We're both pretty drunk too. It's making for a kind of surreal interactive Business Insider YouTube video of a conversation. He talks, waits for my response, sees my mouth moving but doesn't hear my words, then he imagines something in their place, and replies to that. At least I don't really have to do anything but drink and mime and listen to a lot of bullshit fake gangster talk, being an actor, boxing, the old days, blah blah blah.

with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.

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.

the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.

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.

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

        13       |
                |
                |
            H   |
                |
                |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
. . . .         |
                |