------there are boys across from me now in the coffee shop at the train station who’ve each had a beer and are laughing at each passing thing. I judge them to be around nineteen, perhaps my age, even. It seems continually amazing to me that I’m encountering on my travels glimpses into the everyday lives of this community; it seems at once a privilege and something sent specifically to unsettle me. I’ve caught myself thinking--is life here different enough for it to all be something I’ve constructed in and for myself? There have been real moments of wondering whether or not any of this is true, if there really is an England, or if the world isn’t gathered around me running through slides, and I’m not really standing still. Other times, I use the idea that things are so different here as an argument against my having been able to make it up--it’s too bizarre, who ever could have thought of the term “jacket potato”?-----
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