a heavy, heavy rain. a clear day.

I created this site

we need to be deconstructing our identities

i was tempted to lie about my name

its good short few pages

Mon, 03 Nov 2025 08:38:49

barren land

plato

stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time

my watchlater reached its limit years ago and now i have to create a playlist for each new topic im interested in but it is incredibly hard to create the taxonomy of knowledge because everything seems to be everything else because at the end it is what you get from it that matters not what is given

It Will Get Lighter

what do you think my name is

yeah

okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate

i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate

It Will Get Lighter

i dont understand magnetisation

really i want the internet

not their contents

all that is to say

it is hopeful

you cannot feed someone truth

but i respect your search

i haven't read 100 book s so i'm probably not getting the depth of all of what you're saying

Another Frenchman pushes through the crowd to join him. He's an events organiser who I'd met earlier, and he's holding a large box wrapped in a bin bag. They're the fireworks he'd smuggled in from France the night before. They're Industrial Grade, whatever that means for fireworks.

so at the end

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

It's

dusk

After I get away from the old racist failed actor, I go to see my Korean colleague. He's just arrived in London and I want to see how he's handling the party. We'd been invited as fresh meat for some of the older, gayer attendees. We aren't aware of that.

I'm getting bored and he can tell, so he shifts the topic towards me. He tells me he'd spotted me chatting to a girl earlier, a black girl, and asks what I thought of her, if I liked her. I mimed affirmatively.

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.

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.

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

He went in there with a camera to film it before he moved out of the building. He didn't think anyone would believe the story if he didn't have proof.