Things I have not had time or space or finger energy to write about since I got back to uni are the footprints with the four toes leading from the shower and down the corridor to the door of my room. Very suspect.
Pleasure in Bacon. There is very very little, only he did say ’some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested’, which is fitting since I have been only tentatively licking of late. Real bacon I haven’t had since back home. No one here understands the avocado-bacon toastie combo.
Visited the University Library for the first time and got lost somewhere on the fifth floor of the south wing between heavy navy-blue journals on the economics of farming. The UL is a paper maze guarded by fierce guarders of books stalking the aisles, the corridors, the toilets and tearooms, hiding little scanners up their sleeves and saying aha very quietly into their bristling moustaches apropos of nothing. Fiercely.
I bet underneath the many onionskin layers of impenetrabe, invisible armour you also are human, and you have bubblebaths and weep into tubs of haagen daaz and drink coffee with your friends and wake up with your hair plastered against your forehead or with pillow imprints on your forearms. And you will walk not stalk, sometimes. Enjoy the smell of cut grass maybe and perhaps a long time ago you once just for a laugh or because no one was watching at that precise moment, or perhaps because it was dark out, you took a running jump and landed on top of a crisp autumn leaf mountain.
Ridiculous! You sleep standing up in your flinty grey suit and for lunch you eat the silent fears of trembling subordinates.
