that looks like my instagram account

i struggle with building a personal technical architecture for storing media, both curation and creation. instead i bookmark everything

It's

dusk

in a snowy forest and I'm playing with a fox.
It bites my wrist but there is only a dull ache.
I feel that it wants to say sorry but can't. I die.

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

i see a website

I wonder if the birds knew I was watching?

i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike

i am quite illiterate on producing technology

I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.

FOUNDING DOCUMENT

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

kind of mythopoesis

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

Thu, 06 Nov 2025 23:18:46

Slug

He was a proper old-fashioned London geezer (cringe word, hate it, can't think of a better one, worst of all it's the correct word), kind of East Endy, kind of Real London, the kind you don't really meet but if you do it always feels like an uncanny immersive theatre experience. They're anachronistic. They only belong in the London collectively imagined by people who don't spend any time in it.

The Hatton geezer (fuck off) reminds me of this old failed actor who I'd met at a party a few years ago, another man out of time and out of place. This actor had scored a minor role in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and never really let go of it, had gone on to build his whole identity around it. I can't really blame him.

It Will Get Lighter

Can I see

you have a beautiful account btw

Thank you, Jack

you know who you are. no more time, not like

1

. way too specific.

it holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!

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

i really havent

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.

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.

The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.