sorry i am texting like a slav

bro i read nothing in my life

confused - is it the tide or its absense? I still like where I was going with it. anyway, real reader know this site is the note.

isaac newton

ahnaf abrar

i want to do that too

like magnets

what do you mean

abrar?

i guess imagine a multimedia obsidian or notion that behaves according to some insane arcane rules that you can't ever really determine

i did until you asked which kind of gave it away

i was tempted to lie about my name

like first name

god "possessing" artists "possessing" people

lol yea

your feed looks like my tumblr

Like the tide, it comes in and it washes over the beach. It's beautiful. But like the tide it goes out, sometimes it goes out further than it ever has, it recedes back across the beach and further out beyond the horizon. The bare seabed opens up in front of you and all you can do is look at it.

yeah

i have read not even 1 book

god being the centre magnet

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.

It Will Get Lighter

part of an old note. It will get lighter.
Actual born-Londoners aren't LARPing like this, they sold their shite family home for a million pounds and moved to Malaga years ago. They have their culture and they've taken it elsewhere.

feel you

nope. i only remember the leaves bristling behind the window during chemistry class

mazelike/rhizomatic/immanent/emergent are not antithetical to a transcendent real but its very manifestation

As I'm trying to tell my Korean colleague / fresh meat that this is abnormal, that most people in England aren't like this, the host of the party emerges from the bathroom to a roar of laughter and applause. He's a fat middle aged Frenchman and he's changed into traditional Indian dress and a turban. He looks fucking ridiculous. I try to back away, to avoid the inevitable photo of me in this moment that will one day appear to ruin my life, but everyone is crowding around, trapping me in the middle of it.

We look out over the river to a block of luxury flats built on the site of some old docks. It would be nice to live right there. Yes. The conversation drifts to the pleasantness of warm lighting and whether anyone needs a smart home. I interrupt her to make a joke about the French Raj as he runs up the causeway. We stand there laughing. The fireworks go off behind him.

kind of mythopoesis