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.
She says something that isn't really right but isn't really wrong. I'm not taking in their words any more, just their voices, trying to get a feel for whatever is going on between them. I'm imagining what it's like for them in this delicate situation, what I would say if it were me. She has that perfect upper-class accent, and she's using whatever upper-class tact that comes with it to navigate this. Style. They can't be together, but their voices are betraying them.
i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me
I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
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
Today I felt like starting
i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike
i love to walk around and see things and take photos and go online and look at websites and click on links and take screenshots i love to surf and i love to browse
in a way what we are really interested in with pedagogy is the magnetisation
so an active mazelike process
After thinking and forgetting and thinking and forgetting
or never left
i have read not even 1 book
like first name
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
and the fake qualifier
the only things i have read are just excerpts and 1 dialogue by plato fully and mcluhan's medium is the massage but it cannot be considered a book
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.
this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet