Can I see
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.
really i want the internet
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
much more tactility
to work in time to get to the timeless, perfection thru chaos
Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46
i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
"Put a blanket."
we need to be deconstructing our identities
ahnaf is it worth reading all those books
i really havent
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
wait what is that
nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class
so the method has to be autonomous
It was about a crazy lady who lived above his flat in Pimlico. She would let pigeons into her flat so she could feed them. Apparently she didn't want her presence in the flat to interfere with the natural behaviour of the pigeons, so she would let them nest and shit in there and she wouldn't clean it up, because it wasn't natural to do so. The pigeons would die, but apart from the smell and the sludge and the gas, the corpses weren't really a problem. It was the rats that came to eat them. The rats would eat the rotting pigeon corpses mixed in with the rotting pigeon shit and they would get ill and die too. New rats that came through wouldn't mind though, and they'd start to eat the mass, only to get sick and die in it later on. The population grew steadily as more pigeons and rats came from in the cold, to live naturally. They fed the mass further.
There is a pretty persistent ambient hate in England, a lot of people say vile shit about Muslims or immigrants or whatever, but in my experience most people aren't actual white supremacists. They have a black friend who they get a beer with. One of the good ones. Etc.
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
Windrush Art Kid Oligarch
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.
and the fake qualifier