The Hatton geezer (fuck off) is emptying his pockets, searching for the silver rizlas he apparently has. He refuses to take one of mine (also silver) because the tobacco I'm giving him is already too much to ask. He tells me about the guy who can do 50g of Golden Virginia for a good price, the guy who every other man over 50 knows. I'm not interested.

Thu, 04 Dec 2025 11:31:03

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49

no longer writing in the third person

I am below everything.

13, H, grate

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

i see a website

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.

division of reality is straying away from it

propensity within someone

Style

you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak

i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike

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

but really the thing should be autonomous

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

think this is much more rhizomatic or immanent or mazelike than mainstream education now

that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.

It Will Get Lighter

amazing hopefully this was all legible and frankly i might be going very off board but you seemed interesting

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

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

Thank you, Jack

I'm in a crowded lift and a girl I've never met tells me she thinks she might love me.
The lift won't stop at any floor, and I can't talk in front of all these people.

I imagine that some lab-grown 29-year-old from Woking with a mind honed to identify individuals who fit the profile of Real Londoner (as conceived of by 50 opinion-polled racist builders and their wives in the Midlands) picks a stubborn local who can still somehow afford to live here and passes him along to some creative studio.

Pimlico Rats

It Will Get Lighter

The studio designs some piece of media to perpetuate the marketable concept of Real London, while the real London is hollowed out by hollow bankers or whatever. Not pulling on that thread. But the yuppies don't mind because they're free to iterate on Real London without any competition from real London because it's too concerned with its slow eradication. And there's nice flats to live in now or whatever. The yuppies can begin to inhabit their Real London.

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