The shift in topics helped, kind of. But in every quiet moment between then and now, it returned. This deep sense of emptiness. There was a realization that my race to write every fucking thing I see and tell it to the whole fucking world was some sort of desire to fill that space. To engage in ways that I usually would be but through different means.

An addiction to the beautiful game and arguably its most exciting competition took hold.

But there was something about that game that drove that hook even deeper. Like the first time you taste a craft beer after years of stale macro brews. Or when you get that first sip of 12-year Balvenie after growing up on bottom-shelf bourbon. Whatever it was, I wanted more.

Nostalgia can often hit in the moments when you least expect it. Last week, I was hit with waves as I cooked up this soup for the first time.