UNION, G-You x QMU Collab

MANIFE FOR UN “THERE

IS

GREAT

STRENGTH IN UNION” -AESOP

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ESTO NION_ Amidst a spread in global discord, the idea of union has never seemed so aspirational. Society can seem fractured and divisive, a problem highlighted by the recent Covid-19 pandemic and spreading political discontent. We’ve turned inwards at a time when we should be reaching out to each other. This isn’t a recent emergence: the influences and injustices of our past are meeting our generation’s potential and hope for the future in a union of flux captured in the opportunity of the present.

On campus, the situation is no different. We face an unprecedented time as life as we know it has been overturned. The spirit of isolation and fear beckons, yet, we must consider the ways in which we can come together in a union that is inherently creative and collaborative to help us express ourselves and feel connected again.

This anthology marks an awakening. Given the theme of ‘Union’, contributors and editors from G-You and qmunicate submitted their best articles and creative pieces to explore what the concept of union means to them. We are both magazines published by student unions, but more than that, we both offer inclusive creative platforms at a time when never before has it been so important to hold on to our identities, and amplify the voice of students.

Consider this our call to arms - to collaborate and spread the spirit of understanding that makes us such a beautiful university community. Let us celebrate our differences and rejoice in our commonalities to form a new union.

This union shall be inclusive and creative in nature. This union shall be one of the self and reject the labels of ego. This union shall cross boundaries and redefine itself. This union starts here, and now.

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CONTENTS_

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1

2

3

HUMAN HISTORY duncan henderson page 6

SIMPLE INTIMACIES imogen james page 8

STREAM emanuela fazzio page 10

4 PHOTO FEATURE mariachiara vernillo page 12

7

8

9

10

BIRD SONG BEING LOUDER scott norval page 17

ART + WORDS george bell page 18

THE HACIENDA MUST BE BUILT catherine bouchard page 20

SMOKING AREA imogen james page 22

5

6

SCIENCE & RELIGION fuad kehinde page 14

LATE NIGHT TRIPTYCH anonymous page 16

11 A VICE susanna zarli page 23

12 LETTER TO AN OLD FRIEND anonymous page 24

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6

Since the dawn of history, the story of humanity has been one of union between families, between tribes, between communities, and ultimately, between nations.

Despite most national mythos, the nations of the world today have their roots in this universal - and sometimes controversial - political truth.

//Duncan Henderson

HUMANITY’S HISTORY_

“No man is an island” wrote John Donne in 1624, and centuries on it still rings true.

Our development as a species is shaped by our interconnectedness, our need to seek out contact, collabortion, communion. Our histories are told through stories of togetherness, from small tribes to feuding empires.

Duncan Henderson explains how these unions have defined the world we live in today.

In the beginning, humans were hunter-gatherers. We lived in small and often nomadic units, mostly made up of our families and a handful of others. Then, the goal of humankind was not to build skyscrapers or to expand our reach, but merely to live to see another day. In contrast to our modern existence, food was not plentiful, and our distant ancestors had to go out most days to forage and hunt for enough food to feed the family. At this point in time, it simply wasn’t possible to live in big groups, or else the land and nature would have been exhausted of its crops and animals, and these groups would face famine and death.

The first real unions in humanity’s history arose from the birth of the agricultural revolution. Although the concept of growing crops may seem simple looking back, it is hard to overstate how much this changed the world for those early humans. Now, instead of small tribes hunting and forging each day, humans could set up a long-term camp and focus on growing crops and rearing livestock. Instead of having to hunt and live off whatever could be found growing in the wild, humans were finally in control of their own food sup-

ply, and this made it much easier for communities to grow.

Over the next centuries, the small hunter-gatherer tribes settled down - often near major rivers with fertile ground and, over time, they united, forming larger communities. As children grew, there was no need to move, given the community could now sustain a much larger population.

Over time, as the march of history progressed, tribes became villages and villages became towns. Each iteration saw more people coming together, sharing a common way of life, a common identity, and a common community.

With the invention of farming freeing up the bulk of human labour, people were free to specialise. They took up exploring, toolmaking, and a range of other professions and activities. No longer constrained to their own community bubble, people sought out other villages and towns - often leading to immense violence - with the conclusion being the rise of nations.

Most national mythos will often recount a single moment or a few short years where these smaller communities became a nation.

Most of them will claim that it happened in a peaceful process. There’s a reason this is a mythos. Rather, the consolidation of these communities into nations was a gradual process - contrary to national mythos, the Picts and the Gaels did not suddenly unite to form Scotland in 843 CE. Instead, the process of unifying the various small fiefdoms that existed in the

north of Great Britain was a gradual process, involving the conquest and assimilation of smaller communities, such as the Kingdom of Strathclyde, into this new national collective. Yet, over time people began to see themselves not as Picts or Gaels, but as Scots - as happened in England with the Angles and the Saxons, and as happened right across Europe. However it happened, more people than ever before were now united in identity. We transitioned to unity with small groups that could number in dozens to hundreds of thousands, spread across a landmass that ranged hundreds of miles.

The human history of union doesn’t stop at these small nations either. As the Industrial Revolution arrived, many nations pooled their resources together and created larger states, more capable of having influence on the international stage.

Their constituent parts yielded - with varying degrees of willingness and resentment - to these new collectives, and from this the United Kingdom, Germany, Spain, and many more stages emerged. Identities and bounds of community now span across hundreds of miles of land, encompassing tens of millions of people.

Over the course of human history, we have seen a story of union between the patchwork of communities making up the world.

We’ve gone from living in tribes of a few dozen at most to cities of millions in countries of tens of millions, and it’s doubtless this is just another step in the march of history.

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THE SIMPLE INTIMACIES OF UNION_

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That feeling when you’re sat at peace, in front of the tv or at the dinner table, and two fingers come together slowly, grazing over one another, until the rest intertwine.

Hands become one, two bound by touch. You know at that moment they want a piece of you, no matter how small and insignificant, to tell them it will be okay, and that you two are okay, and that life is okay. A hand can mean more than a half-hearted attempt at recreating your favourite The Notebook scene to try and keep the spark alive. I would

xp en si

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There are intimacies that we plainly ignore these days: union is expected to bring overwhelming emotion, over-

whelming touch, overwhelming gestures. But union of two doesn’t need to be like that to succeed. The reality, once appreciated, is far nicer than any crappy romcom that cinema can spit out. The reality is a simple intimacy.

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There’s too much emphasis on how to love. It isn’t a great love if you don’t run after each other on the way out of the door screaming how much you love them, or if you don’t have massive arguments that end in steamy hot sex and a cigarette. The fact is now, you’ll always be disappointed. Nothing is enough, flowers aren’t to be expected every week, sex doesn’t have to be everywhere, every day. We have convinced ourselves that our lives are disappointing because they don’t live up to the fake reality we have created.

“I would rather be bored by a peaceful union than scared in an inadequate one.”

t s n’ it i

I think we have set ourselves up to fail.

Hollywood is not real life. Hollywood is a man-made construct, where the first kiss always shoots fireworks and plays Taylor Swift, where every airport scene concludes with a big hug and applause from random strangers. Kisses are nice, but only nice, and airports are awkward and judgemental.

Strangers would never applaud; they’d probably just pretend they didn’t see anything.

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rather be bored by a peaceful union, than scared in an inadequate one.

A cup of tea. Two sugars.

Kettle not fully boiled. On my desk in the morning. He works early, but he thinks of me. It isn’t an expensive bottle of champagne with roses, but it’s PG tips and it’s good for the heart. He is good for the heart. He thinks of me, and takes care of me, and gestures in the way that real life works.

There is no romantic script to follow, we fight when we fight, usually with short quiet sentences and a teary apology, and then we take the piss out of each other, and go to bed. We shag when

we want, when we feel like it, if he is too tired, I don’t feel ignored, I feel happy that he isn’t pressuring himself, so we look like the perfect couple. We don’t kiss in front of everyone, but he hugs me in front of his mum and dad and brother, which I think is just as intimate.

He had a long day. He has been having long days for a while now, and I know that makes him grumpy. I don’t sit upset that I’ve been ignored, or that it’s the fourth day in a row he’s been late. I run him a bath and cook his favourite dinner and leave it for him. I let him speak when he’s ready and sit on his phone to catch up. We go about our daily lives bit by bit, intimacy by intimacy. Intimacy isn’t defined by touch or sex or tongue, it’s defined by a deeper understanding that we are normal. We aren’t Brangelina or Gigi and Zayn; we are us, in our little life, with our little touches and jokes and cares. Coming together, in any aspect, is union enough.

//Imogen James

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//Play With Me

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//Mariachiara Vernillo

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//Emanuela Fazio

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A severed old man, you luminous interminable dusk. your uncertain grip.

British Summer Time is at its peak:

stand Light

still, grey

observant, and slightly bent, immersed and mauve and your weary hands;

in a sturdy

plumbeous lines and

late drops of daylight leech from the sky, dripping, dripping, dripping into the Clyde.

Passing through, I share a wind-carved fragment of this evening up stranger, facing northeast at your days’ coda and unescapably the child of your mother.

with

you,

badly

stitched-

The day takes a sulky leave.

Laborious thin rain works its way into clothing, soil, and concrete, diagonally cutting the blurry trace of my reflection.

Dim streetlamps stretch through and follow my steps towards the busy crossing. Disoriented by raindrops, my eyes catch the motions of my body and Glasgow as both melt into light lines and make a dog emerge out of a puddle.

(I was seven, I had a high fever and) A blink breaks the spell: the dog vanishes into muddy water.

Bright red umbrellas, symmetrically planted into pebbles on a crowded beach. Scattered sand toys.

Sun-soaked hills circling the lake-crater.

Sitting on a plastic chair in the veranda, you solemnly tell us of the time you had to fight to survive against the water, your youth dragged downwards struggling to keep afloat almost eaten up by the Tyrrhenian.

Your tale shoulder.

of

that

quasi-fatal

bygone

summer

sounds

like

an

oracle.

I

touch

your

freckled

My life, precariously standing as it is on a tower of assorted Your stubborn resistance to death at sea is one; alien rocks. the strokes of the unknown swimmer who brought you back to shore, another; my life, started in your waters (you were holding my hand) curls it itself the agonising spider; a grotesque return to the cradle. I bow to the basin, taps open, into (as I hallucinated a curly dog under the bathroom sink.

Don’t you remember?) and cleanse my face in running water.

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SCIENCE AND RELIGION_ //Fuad Kehinde

Does a middle ground exist? To some, it seems unlikely. And yet, these two apparent opposites have more in common than one might think. Fuad Kehinde discusses faith, logic, and misconceptions about a supposed fundamental incompatibility.

“The central ideology does not change but the way we as people interpret these ideologies does. So, is religion really as inflexible as it initially seems?”

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It is easy, or perhaps natural, to believe that science and religion are simply incompatible, that both schools of thought always ideologically collide and one must reject the other to believe in one. I have wanted to study physics since I was a child, but I was also raised a Muslim. I’ve always questioned whether I could hold onto faith while pursuing science. Can one be a scientist and a religious person?

The first and most obvious clash that one might state exists between science and religion is that of faith.

Faith, as defined in Hebrews 11(Bible), is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Science relies only on empirically proven truths; you can only believe something if it can be proven using just facts.

In a way, there is a sense of this kind of reasoning held within some religions. Limiting myself to Abrahamic religions, there exist central truths in these religions that all other beliefs and rules stem from. Christianity relies on the truth of the resurrection of Christ, Islam relies on the truth that the angel Gabriel gave the prophet Muhammed the Qur’an, etc. However, it is from these truths that faith begins to exist. In fact, you are not meant to be able to prove or disprove these central truths, you must simply have faith that they are real.

This kind of faith is unwelcomed in the pursuit of science. For a scientist, faith without evidence is a weakness but, when it comes to religion, it is a great strength. Is that all there is to it? Sure, when it comes to the ideal scientist there is no such thing as faith, but I believe the perfect scientist to be a robot and not a human.

The question of science and religion is more pertinent to how an individual lives their life as opposed to ideals.

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’t

re

i lig

ou s ”

When you look at history, it’s very clear that religion does indeed change.

There is, of course, the Reformation, which caused massive shifts in the religious world. But even centuries before that, the relationship people had with religion constantly changed.

Father Petavius, a Jesuit in the 17th century, wrote about how theologians in the first three centuries of Christianity used phrases and statements which would have been condemned as heretical from the fifth century onwards. Even now, very few religious people follow every word in their sacred texts. As Ed Kessler, a Jewish academic, said in an interview once: “…each generation has the responsibility to interpret their texts for that generation. And the texts may mean slightly different things for each generation… we reinterpret the text and make sense of it for each particular period of time”.

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Another important clash is that of flexibility. In science, we empirically prove facts about the nature of the universe, but we are prepared to be proven wrong. In a way, a lot of scientific facts are provisional. We’re always waiting for more accurate descriptions. But for religions, this kind of flexibility isn’t possible.

What you believe cannot be changed or be proven wrong if the point of your beliefs is that there is no proof and that evidence is not needed. Religion is incredibly inflexible, and it never changes... right?

ar e

As humans, we tend to have faith in all sorts of things that aren’t religious: superstitions, stories we heard as a child, the Mandela Effect. The person who actually does science cannot truly be so perfect in their pursuit; we can afford to have faith in things while still being a scientist. It doesn’t necessarily have to inhibit us.

t hi n g s t h a of t

“As humans,

we

t

so

faith in have al to l d en

Sacred texts do not get rewritten. The central ideology does not change but the way we as people interpret these ideologies does. So, is religion really as inflexible as it initially seems?

When it comes down to it, I am not one who subscribes to accommodationism, that is, the claim that science and religion are compatible. It is undeniable that the ideals of science and religion cannot be compatible. Some religions make claims about the universe that science heavily disputes, as exemplified by the creationism versus evolution debate. And when scientists try to deal with the possibility of a God, we end up limiting God’s importance to an extent that’s not acceptable to religion. But that is only a discussion of ideologies. If there is a place where they can be aligned, it is in the individual. Believing in religion does not necessarily need to hold you back from science: this particularly applies to non-Abrahamic religions, that don’t always have the clashes with science typical of Abrahamic ones.

There is a reason that 84% of the global population identifies with a religious group. Religion makes many people happy; it provides them with peace and security in their lives, by giving them the feeling that the world isn’t out to get them and that death isn’t a scary unknown. If your religion is a positive aspect of your life and you are not harming others, then there’s no real reason to condemn it.

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LATE NIGHT TRIPTYCH_ //Anonymous

The tick of a clock As once more time rushes in To fill the void of night Ushered in by the Fates, Dissolving the past, Not yet presenting the future.

The world remains enraptured by This temporal dysphoria, This 2am curtain call

And the waves crawl back Retracing their path Where once they met sand to Take their final bows at sea.

The crashing breaks echo in the stillness, Throwing up spray, A beckoning siren call as The sea air rolls lazily inland

On the fog that envelops me And holds me closer than you did, Shrouded in the reset of cool air’s embrace As we stumble into the street And I crash into a wall - or maybe a fence.

In this moment (The drunk texts of tomorrow unread) (The reality of consequence unfazed) (The regrets of the night unspoken) It feels okay to be happy, to have laughed the way we laughed And to speak the words better left unsaid.

It feels okay to collapse into slumber, To swim out once more Into my blackout trance Until I wake again To the tick of a clock.

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never questioning the difference of birdsong

//Scott Norval

hearing the voices

a chug a stomping

or a tractor waking up

of a waterfall

the deep wooded rush

ceasing

echoing

song

resonating

bird song being louder these days

like morning

and then forward motion

of past lives learned from mother fathers since gone

singing the songs of other places

enough of them to dance across the sky here they pass through

the starlings have here have sung their song over the ages never

by our kind

understood

of hope a fullness not yet

a kind

sleep chorus of dawn

and broken awoken to the

sunrise

of morning after

first breath

the

BIRD SONG BEING LOUDER THESE DAYS_

W

ART + WORDS = ?

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//George Bell

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facebook.com/ComicCreatorsClub 19

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“You’ll never see the hacienda. It doesn’t exist. The hacienda must be built.”

- Ivan Chtcheglov, Formulary for a New Urbanism

THE HACIENDA ‘The Hacienda must be built’: so writes Ivan Chtcheglov, a prominent member of the political group Situationist International (SI). It can seem difficult to connect a movement made up of avant-garde theorists and artists advocating an anti-authoritarian form of Marxism with the Hacienda, a nightclub in Manchester built by members of ‘New Order’ (a band credited with introducing house and new wave music to Britain). Yet, understanding the roots of the Hacienda can provide a useful framework for recognising the symbolic political ideals represented by the rise of the rave culture in Britain. The rave community has typically been seen as born of Britain’s growing sense of disenfranchisement and has an anarchist ethos, rejecting the modern club scene as overly capitalist and controlled.

The rise of the rave has arguably been one of the most radical shifts in Britain’s music scene, yet also is associated with a sense of belonging and acceptance by attendees.

No time seems more poignant than now to remember this, especially as many of Britain’s underground clubs face imminent closure.

Let us journey back to 1957, to the formation of the SI. This group rejected original models of Marxism, arguing the world has changed since Marx’s initial writings, but believe his underlying critique of the capitalist mode of production

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remained valid. Embracing surrealist art forms that were tied to Trotsky and the ideas espoused in Breton’s ‘Manifesto for an Independent Revolutionary Art’, the members of the SI rejected the apparent successes of advanced capitalism, as these were seen as coming at the expense of social degradation and dysfunction of its participants. The central notion to situationist theory is the idea of ‘The Spectacle’, of which mass media is the most prominent manifestation. Under ‘The Spectacle’, consumers and workers find themselves ruled by the very commodities they produce, as they are fetishised by a society that drives ever-increasing consumption (a reprisal driven by Lukacs).

The artistic focus of SI narrowed on Urbanism in particular, and it is this that attracted Chtcheglov’s attention. With revolutionary heritage (his father was imprisoned after the 1905 revolution in Russia), Chtcheglov himself wrote his most influential text, ‘Formulary for a New Urbanism’ at just nineteen. Opening with the statement, “we are bored in the city, there is no longer any Temple of the Sun”, the text is a surreal depiction of a bleakly inhumane urban city wherein “we really have to strain to still discover mysteries on the sidewalk”. Arguing “all cities are geological”, Chtcheglov illustrates how “we move within a closed landscape” and sets out

//Catherine Bouchard his perception of the detachment of the modern urban city, before proposing that “we don’t intend to prolong the mechanistic civilizations and frigid architecture that ultimately lead to boring leisure. We propose to invent new, changeable decors”, and explains the drive for creation has always been tied to playing with architecture.

Of course, no line has become more famous than that of the hacienda. A hacienda is typically a homestead in a ranch, conjuring up connotations of community, acceptance and warmth. The Hacienda was meant to be a club people could attend to feel a sense of belonging, and hosted the biggest names in music prior to their fame such as the Smiths and Madonna, before becoming one of the first clubs in the UK to launch the house music scene with DJs such as Mike Pickering, Graeme Park and Greg Wilson. The club was pioneering in reshaping the scene of Manchester’s nightlife before closing due to its drug culture and gun violence problem. Ironically, the club has itself been commodified as a spectacle: now living life as a block of flats in Manchester, but is nonetheless remembered fondly for helping to launch acid house and the rave culture.

There is an undeniable bond between rave culture and the urban sprawl. Many old names

in house music mourn the sense of belonging the 80s scene provided, as the dance floor became dominated by corporate forces which turned the cult of the DJ into a multi-million pound business. Yet, as throughout history, the youth remain radical. Nowadays in Manchester, the scene has moved to the outskirts of the city, to industrial regions like Salford, embracing the DIY spirit that was initially core to the rave. Raves hosted in venues like Hidden and Antwerp Mansion repurpose disused buildings for young people to laugh, party and celebrate in, rejecting trends of disenfranchisement amid mass unemployment. In London, the summer of love returned despite years of austerity, repression and police brutality. The illegal rave scene has also marked a rejection of stereotypical entry policies and prices to act as a political rejection of capitalism and the commodification of fun - mimicking the rejection of the spectacle the SI proposed.

At the moment, it is clearly unsafe and massively irresponsible to host or attend raves.

But emerging from the pandemic we all will have a role to play in shaping and defining a new rave culture. The hacienda can still be built. Let us find strength and rave, and laugh, and joke once more. The idea of the collective is still as influential as ever: it will be up to us to prove it.

MUST BE BUILT

“Everyone’s in the music...

We’re all under one roof raving, laughing and joking, y’know what I mean?”

- Quotes from Ravers in ‘Fioruccie Made Me Hardcore’

by Mark Leckey

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//Imogen James

SMOKING AREA_

I don’t miss the thump of the club Sweaty sticky juicy The money being swallowed and spilled The boys being grabby and cocky The bartenders huffing and puffing.

I miss the sickly sweet smoke Wafting Around the damp concrete Into the 2am air.

Lighters passed around like sweets at Christmas.

Coughing, Distinct.

A drunk boy who doesn’t smoke when he’s sober.

Sniffling Why doesn’t he love me?

Cackling Her friend just fell over Sighing The bouncer misses his passionate sex in the 1am kitchen light.

All this so people can feed an addiction.

But we won’t stop Brought together by a burning desire for a chemical

A harmony of people Hurting themselves as one.

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A VICE_

//Suzanna Zarli

I scrub my hands and the water’s scolding So should you want to kiss them You won’t notice the smoke, the holding Of two bodies loud in the anthem Of my dreams, Like the lace at the seams Of my blouse a white pristine Feed me a new hope As violent, as sanguine As the poppy’s bright red cloak Sprung from cement’s vault Like my verses bursting Like my clean hands hurting From the water’s assault I scrub my hands and it’s ice Scraping my fingers like your teeth On my teaspoon, this vice Won’t leave me, this myth Won’t stay.

Welcome to the bay Of my thoughts: Fortune favours The bold they say, my endeavours Block the way to grandeur: Gentlemen, welcome to the tour Of my sad predicament.

I scrub my hands for my will Can’t be scrubbed anew, The blonde flower on my windowsill Glows too amidst the smoke But what’s a girl to do? This is the lightest Stain on my life, the brightest Of my flaws, the fairest Of my bad, bad habits right now: Perhaps you should teach me how To better scrub my hands from this For they stay cold, darling, and unkissed.

I scrub my hands raw from last night And my eyes, no debris left Let my body soak in the light Of this quiet morning, this is my theft: I take this hour for myself, I seize it Like my fingers grasp the lighter Like my chest coils tighter At the unbridled thought of you: Let me for once be cast Adrift in the black eye of the cauldron Of all things going too fast: For your hands are unkissed too

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//Letter to an Old Friend

HEY, I’VE BEEN THINKING A LOT LATELY I know this sounds mundane. I guess what I mean to say is, I’ve been trying to think. And I’m not sure I’m succeeding. The clarity of mind I used to have when you knew me seems so far away. Life seems a bit foggier now, a rote learning of the patterns of interaction we established for ourselves at fifteen.

I don’t think I’ve told you I’ve started going to Quaker meetings. This used to be the sort of thing we’d laugh at, a midlife crisis at the prime age of twenty one. I think I just need a bit of guidance.

‘I feel completely spiritually bereft’ I explain, half laughing, half as serious as I’ve ever been before. I sit in silence and stare at the faces of the people sitting around me. I try and think, and sometimes it works. Sometimes I feel awed, aware of the divine intricacies of the human condition. Most of the time I

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end up looking out over the sprawl of Woodlands and finding solace in the construction noises which sound the same whichever city I found myself in.

I’ve begun to take ministry in long walks, never especially urgent, just walking in a circle for hours. Just trying to feel the air on my skin.

Just being alone in a way I never am inside. I walk, to trace patterns of the steps I’ve taken yesterday, or the day before that; to burn off some of the complexity of an afternoon breakdown; or to try and delay the inevitable return to my flat.

I’m trying so hard, so fucking hard, to find something a bit more than waking up each day and doing the same things over and over again, as my mind slips away, the words on the textbook in front of me oppressive and unfeeling. I think you’d be proud as I try to be a bit nicer, have a bit more

patience. God, though, how whiny I sound, just like I did back then. My issues always seemed so pressing, so much weightier than others’. At least there was always a certain comfort in the selfish inwardness of my pretentiousness.

I guess when I think about me back then, I also think about you. It was always us two in my history. The only person I bothered to talk to when I moved again. The first person who I felt understood by. There’s been others since, who can make sense of my drunk ramblings and philosophies. Never in the way you did though. No one else measures up. People come and go, I love them and they leave, and that doesn’t matter to me.

Nothing does anymore. Life just feels like iterations on a theme of the same shit, different city.

rather, the recklessness captured in our 2am stumbles home, careless overdrafts and squaring up to bouncers. Shouting up at the sky, throw whatever you can at us, we can hack it.

The naive courage of teenage girls still strikes a chord in me, seeing their vulnerability, because it was us, it was us having fun, knowing nothing mattered and that this moment, losing ourselves to a night out, was as good as it was ever getting.

I think listening to Sharon Van Etten made me soft, and I joke about settling down in Clapham, or Shoreditch, or Chelsea, becoming a different future person in each borough. Entering a committed relationship with commutes to a fifty hour week, as if subversive humour is a lifering I can use to cling on to any tatters of my old self.

You decorate your flat in town, and send me photos, each growing up in our own ways. I joke we’ll end up like our parents and our laughter hits a bit too close to home to be funny.

The city used to be ours.

And I guess, I just wanted to write to say,

Remember when the nihilism we learnt about in afternoon philosophy wasn’t stuffy words on a page, but

HEY, REMEMBER THE GOOD TIMES? //Anonymous 25

THANK YOU FOR JOINING US IN UNION

CONCEIVED BY: CATHERINE BOUCHARD (CO-EDITOR IN CHIEF AT G-YOU) DESIGNED BY: OLIVIA SWARTHOUT (PRODUCTION OFFICER AT G-YOU) EDITED BY: DUNCAN HENDERSON (POLITICS EDITOR AT G-YOU) EMANUELA FAZZIO (DEPUTY EDITOR AT QMUNICATE) FRANCISCA MATIAS (EDITOR IN CHIEF/LIBRARIES CONVENOR AT G-YOU) SUSANNA ZARLI (EDITOR IN CHIEF AT QMUNICATE)

//Photo by Mariachiara Vernillo