in a post. I want to be remembered

a version of this existed for a few months last year but it was static. it was HTML with writing and pictures and videos and sounds. i had this feeling that the code should be as important as the content, that structurally each piece in relation to each other piece shouldn't change, that the mazelike quality should emerge from me intricately arranging paths through it. like classic hypertext

it exists in my head in some way that i'm trying to get out i lied on my story a little bit because i'm mostly feeling it and thinking about it. feeling something deeply doesn't necessitate any kind of deep relevance or whatever but the thinking is useful

something for the future. something to look at when this is more. I've been thinking about... whatever

okay im going very rogue and very inarticulate

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

I am below everything.

Rain, starting

something religious, a kind of complex,

it will get lighter

, something washing, cleansing, revealing, etc.

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

god "possessing" artists "possessing" people

Garden Post-Dusk, Birds Above, In Another Life

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

Sun, 23 Nov 2025 10:37:17

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

and the fake qualifier

A procession forms behind the French Raj and his fireworks bearer as they head out the door. I've lost my Korean colleague / fresh meat in the chaos. I'm sure he'll be able to fend for himself. They have mandatory military service in Korea.

The old failed actor genuinely believed this girl was of a lesser race. He believed she shouldn't be talking with me, shouldn't be here at this party, shouldn't be here in this country. He wanted a white England. I didn't really challenge him on it. Sometimes I justify it with thoughts like I was drunk, or baffled, or it isn't an argument I'll win, or he can't hear me anyway, or whatever. I didn't argue with him. I just cut off his rant and left with a pathetic "In a bit."

...

what do you think my name is

its performative

...

And thank you for telling me that the manner in which the narrator consistently fails to act morally is really compelling. Fuck you.

all that is to say

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

We gather around the start of a causeway down to the Thames. It's a pretty cold night and there's a breeze coming off the river. I've found the girl, or she's found me, and we're smoking a cigarette while we watch the dim silhouettes of the French Raj and his fireworks bearer down on the bank. They're fucking around with the box. I ask her what people do with fireworks for so long before they're ready to light. She doesn't know.