Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.
as in
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
wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me
in a post. I want to be remembered
but i respect your search
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i haven't read 100 book s so i'm probably not getting the depth of all of what you're saying
i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
brb i will read and reply sincerely
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting
sorry i am texting like a slav
okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate
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.
Better Lift