isaac

that looks like my instagram account

and the fake qualifier

sorry i am texting like a slav

i was tempted to lie about my name

was it worth it

magnetisation basically means the induction of divine form unto you

and the fake qualifier

bro i read nothing in my life

plato

i love it here

i don't really want to be associated with that one for some reason

barren land

we need to be deconstructing our identities

send your tumblr

i understand

i hadn't considered this pedagogically or as a kind of personal knowledge management system (puke) at all but i suppose it is both of those things

I'm sat out the front of a cafe in Hatton Garden. I've just eaten a brie and bacon panini, and I'm rolling a cigarette. Feeling very London. An old man comes up to me and asks for a roll-up. I oblige.

no like which do people call me

it is hopeful

"No, it'll get cold!"
"Put a tut ahh put a-"

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.

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.

There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.

what do you think my name is

I'm trying to picture the scene inside, like I was trying to picture the scene in the tree.

I Write Goodbye Letter

hiding from the rain

i really havent

Thank you, Jack

Worse Lift