She closes the window. I wasn't paying attention anyway, I'm getting cold, and the birds are nowhere to be seen. I go inside.
god being the centre magnet
Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17
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
you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak
we can only engage in such a way
yes
Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
really i want the internet
i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike
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.
so at the end
ahnaf abrar
like first name
The only real Londoner remaining is old, bitter, kept around for entertainment, defined by tropes from 30+ years ago. They play gangsters in films, or they work in a pie and mash shop, or they go on Business Insider's YouTube channel to tell you about their crimes. And they somehow still find the time to spend all day hanging about cafes and pubs for you to bump into, to remind you of Real London.
hiding from the rain
barren land