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An Unfinished Entry from University College London (September 24, 2013)

Dear Self,

I am writing to Self from the University College London Main Library. More specifically, the Public Policy, Human Rights, et al. Reading Room. It's a lovely place, certainly. Just today, as I walked to this particular room, to sit down at this particular desk [ad infinitum] to write this little note-to-self, the scent of the library — mmm — I am distracted. I am rambling.

What was I talking about?

Right, the scent of the library. Mmmmm. To a scholar, the scent of a library excites, but also serves as a monotonous drone — right.

There are a bunch of fellows here, thumbing through the books and trying to look academic, and such. I am quick to judge them as a bunch of tossers, twats, nincompoops, whatever. They are most certainly loud-mouthed people who fail miserably (and in a distracting fashion) at whispering.

There, too, is a nice sir sitting diagonal from me. When I sneeze, he says "bless you". Well, bless him — how kind. It is the first time anyone has uttered such a thing to me in, what some call, an... Right, London.

Oh, and yes, the chap diagonal from me. I was here in this reading room, oh, probably six hours ago. He is still here. Typing away, boom boom. He is probably brilliant. Maybe he is a big scholar. Am I a scholar? I don't know. Maybe I don't want to be a scholar. Is it good to be a scholar?

Oh, and yes, I met the first and second-third-fourth people from my program today. The first was a bloke who, at first, opted to sit

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