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.
really i want the internet
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
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
you cannot feed someone truth
"I'm only attracted to you", he replies. "Like, you only."
Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.
in a post. I want to be remembered
theres a kind of a cowardice to generative art that i want to avoid though. i want the kind of relationship to this thing that a game designer has to a game engine
propensity within someone
I know that if I try to make this entry any more than it is I will ruin it.
sorry i am texting like a slav
i understand
plato
i don't really want to be associated with that one for some reason
wait what is that
the point of this was to try and avoid this narcissistic death spiral I'm in by acting anonymously and impulsively. how can that feeling that even Jack can't describe paralyse me if my name isn't next to any of this? the excitement of believing I just need a new process has overcome me and I have cummed out an empty webpage.
Today I felt like starting
ahnaf abrar
but it is in my head and am i compelled to realise it, so it is my silmarillion, my tempelos