"The wheel has come full circle. I am here." Forgive me quoting the Dane at you unawares. His utterance holds some poignancy for me as I stand at the precipice of my final year in this bizarre world we, and indeed the rest of the world, call ‘Cambridge.’ I actually returned two weeks ago to catch up on some dissertation reading. I thought the structure-less format of the dissertation might be quite constrictive but it’s proving to be fucking freeform: I propose that Shakespeare was actually well ahead of Keats.

Annoyingly/actually not that annoyingly (!) I keep getting sidetracked by my mate Rudi, who’s finally been given his own ironic house night at Hidden Rooms. At last!! Term’s looking good though; there’s this linguistics seminar series starting on Thursday that everyone says is a massive must see/listen although Erica brought back some chai from Assam that can only be fully enjoyed on Thursday afternoon. Erica is profoundly interesting - I’m fascinated by the shape of her chakra. Also her breasts.

I really find language to be the basis of all writing. Without it we’d just be like animals, like voles or little shitty worms or something. Luckily my DoS this year is such a chiller.

Apparently he only smokes weed that he grows in his lake. I think he’s really going to get me. I want to talk to him about how Freud must have done acid becasue this one time at Kambar...

I sometimes wish I was at Cambridge in Wordsworth’s time: wearing tailcoats, riding a horse to lectures, maybe getting to know Wordsworth and the others. I guess Wordsworth wouldn’t have been able to do the sort of stuff I’m doing now. Like my essay on beat-boxing poetry subculture around the Nile. It proves that poetry can be anything- an old cricket bat, a cool hat, some lines of metrical verse, anything.