Those safe university mornings waking up to a body of books, lying there prone to Goethe, Schiller, Leopardi and a rogue copy of Moon Palace.
The soft easy progression from Radio 3 wake up call to the library,
The burnt smell of roasting coffee and Bristol Winter Sun following me like a faithful dog.
Pouring over thought and art, believing that this was the most stressed and unsure I would ever feel.
Little did I know of the abyss that awaited me.
Perhaps there is more agency these days
But gone is the comfort of musty libraries, eccentric professors and monthly loan instalments.
Today is a naked void, where thought is unanchored in a series of anxious platitudes.
And the things that truly matter cannot be found in closeted academia.