I remember simpler times, when my sister would provide me with the newest music from the British Isles.

I remember simpler times, when all I wanted to do was write.

I remember simpler times, when to follow suit and find a footing in England’s green hills was the highest of my aspirations.

To own a bookshop, to write my own novels, to sell whisky and cigars.

To travel to the mainland once a month to go to the theatre.

To have a loving wife, to cook together, to read together on the porch.

I remember simpler times when dreams were a reflection of what I truly wanted.

I remember simpler times, when politics only meant that I would vote once every couple of years.

I remember simpler times, when I didn’t feel inferior for lack of having achieved someone else’s ambitions.

Oh to travel back to my mind back then – to find a niche within it and to read.

Instead my heart and all its aspirations must constantly bleed.

It is tranquility, quiet productivity for which I have a true need.

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