Remnants

The ruins are the truth of the uni. It’s what the uni is.

Relics. Remnants. Beached. Contentless.

The melancholy of the uni, right? A secret melancholy.

That only we know.


All this detritus … All these leftovers of the humanities …

That don’t add up to anything. Just scattered pieces. Fragments.


A recapitulation of the humanities. This is the UK humanities all over again. All the phases of the UK humanities are here.


Like a tide mark on the wall. Where the humanities rose highest.


It’s what happens after time’s up. After the ride’s over. It’s about the aftermath, the aftertime, after the humanities had their fun.


It’s cold in the ruins.


We’re the only ones who can see the ruins. Who can see the old campus as a ruin. As a ruin to be. As remnants to come.

Who can understand the ruins as ruins? Who gets the ruins? Only us.


The ruins disguise themselves. The ruins appear as the opposite of ruins. To everyone but us.


We discern the ruins – at least we have that. We see the ruins for what they are. And that’s because of what we are – even as we loathe ourselves for being what we are.


In the ruins of the uni. In the ruins of the humanities.

In the shell of the humanities. In its husk. In its crater. Where it once was.


The fact that we could live in the academic ruins. Could make a life for ourselves, in the academic ruins.


We’re leftovers. Remnants. Toys in the humanities attic.