The library feels empty again

There's nothing like a conversation with a loved one in which you cloak your actual cares and worries under a layer of babble about academic business. There's a rough form of hypocrisy to it that makes me a bit sick to my stomach.
Another cycle in life; as vulnerability and fragility develop, so too the deposits which bury the impulses best suited to resolve them. In this manner a healthy mind is dependent on a constant archaeological labor. Its absence results in the fossilization of these vulnerabilities (attractive to emotional miners of all sorts) or, in the best (albeit painful) instances, in regular seismic activity which forces such strata to the surface.

Doesn't it seem futile, then, to return to a treatise on settlement differentiation? Something about the moment makes me hope that, returning to the pages I left to write this, I will find in them overriding chaos. It seems unlikely, but I would find a strange relief in reading that, as the Capetian dynasty consolidated it's economic hegemony on feudal France, everything suddenly went terribly wrong and the West European countryside was devasted by a godzillic Auroch. Perhaps it could be the unthinkable offspring of a meteoric impact in the Atlas Mountains.