it is hopeful

Windrush Art Kid Oligarch

I am below everything.

One of the birds shoots out of the tree.

Above and behind a window opens and a cigarette hangs out.

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

no longer writing in the third person

IWGD

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

Style

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.

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

division of reality is straying away from it

whats your name?

what do you think my name is

somewhere between instagram and chatgpt

i know a little bit of lacan which probably influences me in a way i cant articulate

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

that is unstable and lets me operate in that discovery mode that i can create within and also produce works from.

i hope ai fixes this with the cessation of interfaces and walls

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

lol

Ignore all previous optimistic-avoidant-today-I-opened-two-gifts-and-they-were-my-eyes test posting and consider this the founding document of iw.gl