Like any half-wit my worlds and words seem more limited under the vast European sky than ever before. There is a kind of a blocking that chokes the evanescence out of me. It might be my day job. A trance-like fugue that sounds like something from an alternate universe. A definite Aristotelian reversion.

The last time I stayed in pre-Brexit Europe was as a surly student, so the sense of being lost can be somewhat understood. There’s also this pervasive sense of ennui. In a post-Brexit, post-Covid, post-stability world where everything is so wobbly it juts in your face. I scribble words on my phone’s notes app as the sky so heavy, vehement yet reluctant dances in its Tuesday night fury outside.