the mind is an unwieldy beast. the poetry of the afternoon, the genteel sunshine on campus paths paved with well-watered lawns of lush green, the comfort of the air-conditioning escaping the noonday summer sun,all of this seems easy enough to talk about. academic writing on the other hand causes relentless agony. the fucked up endless search for the so-called 'perfect' moment to begin writing means periods of self-hatred interspersed with periods of allowing the mind its reiterating idiosyncracies, feeling as if this very paragraph i've just written glows with an ultraviolet aura of fanless powercut claustrophobia with threads of brown and a particularly unpleasant shade of magenta verging on ochre weaving the fabric of my day

pragmatic grit?
sharp whiff of green chili and onion screaming Rammstein?