I have a map on my wall, and in it are stuck a thousand pins. Paris, oui. London, oh yes. There are so many places I’ve decided not to go. My bookshelves are filled with guidebooks. Mumbai promised so much, pages 63-5 talk about a spice market and the adjoining flower stalls, the abundance of monkeys and cows freely walking among the vendors. Oslo always looked nice, and still does, polished on paper inside the hard lacquer cover that I’ve barely cracked.

My desk drawer is full of broken itineraries, lists longer than the collected obituaries of New York and Ottawa and Sydney combined. Je suis Charlie? Je suis désolé. In that same drawer are tickets and receipts. Unused. Non-refundable. That desk drawer holds some rampant wish to visit and live, and yet, je suis désolé.

Philip Swann is 27, from England and all of his worst thoughts can be found at @ThePhilipSwann

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