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.

is everyoneback on tumblr now

in a post. I want to be remembered

Rain, starting

but i respect your search

It Will Get Lighter

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

"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."

the textwall is as much for me as it is for you

yes

so the method has to be autonomous

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

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

"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only." 
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it holds me to something (you, now). I love editing!

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

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.

all that is to say

wow, you are the first stranger to write a textwall to me

that looks like my instagram account

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.

my watchlater reached its limit years ago and now i have to create a playlist for each new topic im interested in but it is incredibly hard to create the taxonomy of knowledge because everything seems to be everything else because at the end it is what you get from it that matters not what is given

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.

i got bored though because i knew all of the different arrangements of it. i probably needed to stick at it longer to get it dense enough to feel navigable in a way that was engaging to me

what do you mean