When you’re lost in the story, the worlds mesh, the real and the figurative intertwine and cobweb around you. Yesterday I was in Oxford and I felt stories in every building. In every shape. A landscape written upon our psyche and in our consciousness. Buildings, some holding knowledge since the 1400s, and still holding it today. Places where you walk – and you feel the thousands that have been there before you. You feel their stories. We are built on stories, telling them to our children, our lovers, our sisters. We tell them, revel in them, find comfort in them. We feel, we know, their shape – their warmth – their familiarity. Stories guide us – make us – break us. They are us. They are our constant; our hope, our fear, our mania.