dreaming of a wee campsite in the corner of the paddock. itching to throw everything into a rucksack or onto the bike and get on a train and go go go away from all the sirens and the zoom calls. get a slice of night sky above one’s head, the billy boiling and spuds roasting in the fire. that’s what i’m talking about. grit from the dirt roads between your teeth and freezing river baths every second morning.