Fuck you, 2015, year, you. You and your predecessors, most of them, some of them, a few of them. Ok, just back to 2011. How’s that? Send me back there, lessons in hand, preferably in cuneiform on clay tablets, nice and incomprehensible so I can do it all again and probably do it all the same again because again again again that’s who we are again, the same again, no matter what again. And what sense does it make to be here again wishing again that it hadn’t all been again. Just another again.