Turning my alarm off for two weeks.

Forget smell, I can taste blood.

Last day of school (work).

Women on the train brushing the rain out their hair.

Stuffy office air: hangover burps with a hint of tiredness.

Didn't make it into the NYPD choir.

Fog is my favourite element.

All the cool kids blog.

Getting all my easy-peelers with half a tree still stuck to them because it's Christmas.

When I wake up in the middle of the night, I get to hear freight trains passing through the quiet town.

Joking aside, is it possible to stroke a beloved pet and look into their kind eyes without saying to yourself “I am going to be so very sad when you die” over and over?

An endless supply of these fucking guys, willing to degrade, humiliate and incriminate themselves, pushing ridiculous bullshit for the worst and stupidest creeps America ever shat out, shaming and dooming us all. Disgusting. What a fucking pathetic toad.

Muddy Waters knows.

It doesn't seem so long ago that people lay on the grass outside the office.

Finely chopped shallots.

This year I learned there are radio stations that just play Christmas songs on rotation — & Dante wept.

Michael Bublé emerging from the soil every December like some sort of festive cicada.

It's a special occasion, isn't it, when you receive your first meeting invite for the new year?

these guys are legends www.youtube.com/watch?v=-yKS...

Subtitle: (WRENCH CONKS HARRY)

Industrial estates are so bleak & depressing — if I was an industrial estate, I'd kill myself.

It’s Wendell Pierce’s birthday One of the most powerful scenes from The Wire: youtu.be/CeCit3qkqxA?...

A Sunday spent making biryani, kachumber salad and sweet & sour raita.

Please add cardamom ice cream to this list of things I enjoy about existence.

I'm nothing. I'll always be nothing. I can't want to be something. But I have in me all the dreams of the world. —"The Tobacconist's" by Fernando Pessoa

It was a pretty evening, maybe I'll tell you about it sometime.

Highlight of the weekend: how happy (& surprised) my dad was when my cat finally sat on his lap, spun until comfortable & started cleaning herself.

At last, some fog.

This Burial record is one of the best things I've ever heard.

a message from the RZA

Damn you, sexy coffee.

Trying to find a polite & articulate way of saying "Fuck you & your spotify wrapped — pay artists for art, you complete tight-arse fuckwit" but failing miserably.

Two months of using the world's sharpest knife & I finally caught myself.

Colour (of yesterday's purchases).

New Armand Hammer, Mavi and Akai Solo released this month — November has been kind to us.

Come Dine With Me (2005—present) is a gateway drug.

Save your soul, listen to King Krule.

No Sontag journals in the local bookshops — the itch will go unscratched, for now.

William Orpen (Irish, 1878 - 1931) The Chess Players, before 1902 oil on canvas 92 x 71 cm Ashmolean Museum, Oxford

You find something to be cheerful about, you lemme know, you hear?

Why won't Bumble let me put Magic the Gathering as my key interest?

My dad told me it was lots of maths & I'd be left alone — he was only 50% right.

30 ans plus tard, la colère (sinon la haine) est toujours là... On en débat le 4/12 Inscription : forms.gle/SfGrtqD6q6QJ...

Shouldn't start cooking at 22:30, not if I'm going to make it in showbiz.

Babe, come over, we can scramble, slither & claw our way towards the numinous together

Joke country.

Susan Sontag's journals give me joy.