Above and in front two birds are darting in and out of a tree. Sometimes they collide to fight or maybe mate, but I can't really make it out in the low light. It's just after

dusk

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

to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos

it exists in my head in some way that i'm trying to get out i lied on my story a little bit because i'm mostly feeling it and thinking about it. feeling something deeply doesn't necessitate any kind of deep relevance or whatever but the thinking is useful

this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet

a lot of what i've been doing has been some imaginary screenshot or recording of his website, something that could be found within it

brb i will read and reply sincerely

Can I see

division of reality is straying away from it

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything

i see a website

i really havent

Thank you, Jack, for telling me I'm just as bad as the characters (actually they're people, if that means anything to you) that I'm writing about.

wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me

you cannot feed someone truth

We look out over the river to a block of luxury flats built on the site of some old docks. It would be nice to live right there. Yes. The conversation drifts to the pleasantness of warm lighting and whether anyone needs a smart home. I interrupt her to make a joke about the French Raj as he runs up the causeway. We stand there laughing. The fireworks go off behind him.

feel you

I catch him on his way to the bar, telling him about this old racist failed actor that I'm avoiding. That I'm failing to confront. I get the sense he's avoiding people too. We get our drinks and find a corner. We chat for a bit. He's managing just fine.

i want to do that too

kind of mythopoesis

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.