Knowledge can nourish like bread—substantial, necessary, filling. You learn where the letter G came from, who invented it, why Z was exiled, and suddenly the alphabet feels alive again, a meal worth chewing.

But then there’s the other side. ‘Knowledge that turns to garnish. Sitting outside Quesnos, sandwich in hand, I wonder which side I’m on. Is this a meal, or an aside? Do I carry history into the bite, or do I watch it wilt like a pickle slice on the edge of the plate? I’m sitting under the logo Q, the Phoenician sign for “monkey-but”, eating something first made by Montague, the Earl of Sandwich.

The test, maybe, is simple: when knowledge changes how I see, it feeds me. When it only changes how I sound, it decorates.