"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."

isaac newton

fw

i have read not even 1 book

your feed looks like my tumblr

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

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

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'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

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

ahnaf abrar

Wed, 11 Nov 2025 21:12:41

stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time

I am below everything.

bro i read nothing in my life

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

Hours staring at the ceiling, the wall, curling up into a ball. It seems annoyed with the light, it kind of recoils. It will get lighter. I wonder where it goes in the day.

the site i am dreaming

"Put a blanket."

Thank you, Jack

Pimlico Rats

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17

there's probably something in that, but I don't feel like thinking about it too much yet.

I wonder if she knew I was down there listening? I wonder if she would've said something more true, more personal, more raw, more heartfelt, more harsh, more seductive, more freeing, more exposing, more risky, more romantic, more rude, more honest, more anything, if there hadn't been an audience.

thank you

2 (actually index). two is company

It Will Get Lighter

He was cast as the guy who gets picked up and thrown out of the poker game to set the scene before the main characters arrive. Out of Real London and into real London, a discarded prop, at this party, chatting to me.

Slug

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.