in my dreams, I’m dying all the time.

It’s been almost two months since I wrote in this blog. It’s also just 2 days shy of the 3-month anniversary of my arrival in Manchester. If my life were an hourglass, the grains of sand would be falling faster than the rain that’s been pounding against my window and the pavements this past hellish week of late autumn.

I’ve found it hard to write anything lately, which is why I haven’t written here in so long. I’ve thought of so much to say — about my friends, about my classmates, about football, about my course. I’ve wanted to write about all the minutiae of daily life. I’ve wanted to write about my research, my ideas, my hopes for the future. Yes, I’ve begun to hope again that there is a meaningful future, certainly a miracle. When I felt that I’d be resigned to uncertainty forever, I regained some sense of purpose. I just find it hard to articulate any of it.

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