I went over to Nantwich earlier, to visit the grave of my friend rich. I had to, as it would have been my last chance before going home. Busses between Crewe and Congleton are usually inaccessible. I’m not sure why though: it’s just a stone sticking out of the ground in a row of such stones, yet something forces me back to that goddamn place. Richard was a good friend, and a great man. My time at uni has been great, but I’ll never forget the day I set out from campus to find him. Thus, the story of my time here is also the story of my relationship with Richards’s death. I don’t often think about it these days, but when I do, it hurts like hell.