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.
like first name
barren land
its good
send your tumblr
lol
i have read not even 1 book
lol yea
i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine
no i haven't really read anything
fw
its good short few pages
plato
ion
stalgivc is the greatest poster of all time
i don't really want to be associated with that one for some reason
i dont understand magnetisation
sorry i am texting like a slav
no like which do people call me
bro i read nothing in my life
i love it here
Dreams like these are highly symbolic and emotionally intense. Here’s a breakdown of common interpretations:
⚠️ Live Document Forever ⚠️
The studio designs some piece of media to perpetuate the marketable concept of Real London, while the real London is hollowed out by hollow bankers or whatever. Not pulling on that thread. But the yuppies don't mind because they're free to iterate on Real London without any competition from real London because it's too concerned with its slow eradication. And there's nice flats to live in now or whatever. The yuppies can begin to inhabit their Real London.
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 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.
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.
currently
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
Sun, 02 Nov 2025 22:11:24
you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak
"Put a blanket."
in a way what we are really interested in with pedagogy is the magnetisation