Dreams like these are highly symbolic and emotionally intense. Here’s a breakdown of common interpretations:
Above and in front two birds are darting in and out of a tree. Sometimes they collide to fight or maybe mate, but I can't really make it out in the low light. It's just after
dusk
, I have nothing to do, I'm watching them, trying to figure it out.hello reader,
Mon, 01 Dec 2025 23:38:15
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
i love to walk around and see things and take photos and go online and look at websites and click on links and take screenshots i love to surf and i love to browse
i see a website though something that reconfigures or is mazelike
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.
One of the birds shoots out of the tree.
much more tactility
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 holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!
okay this is interesting because pedagogies we have rn are not proper models
I'm sat out the front of a cafe in Hatton Garden. I've just eaten a brie and bacon panini, and I'm rolling a cigarette. Feeling very London. An old man comes up to me and asks for a roll-up. I oblige.
this is possible in mazelike research sprints on the internet
as in
The only real Londoner remaining is old, bitter, kept around for entertainment, defined by tropes from 30+ years ago. They play gangsters in films, or they work in a pie and mash shop, or they go on Business Insider's YouTube channel to tell you about their crimes. And they somehow still find the time to spend all day hanging about cafes and pubs for you to bump into, to remind you of Real London.
i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls
no longer writing in the third person
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.