not their contents

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

i am quite illiterate on producing technology

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.

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

yes

really i want the internet

its performative

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

Worse Lift

hiding from the rain

with this post net clarity and the hours of nothing that followed I realise this is going to be awful.

Can I see

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"

i believe search always should be immersive, because whatever is pre planned and non consuming (what you are looking for is total engulfment by the spectre of the real), a joyous intensity, a flow of virtue

okay this is interesting because pedagogies we have rn are not proper models

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

i am quite confused, not quite getting the idea of it

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.