Poetry

sucks.

Or I suck at it. Either way, there's nothing more uncomfortable than trying to write yourself through a dry spell when you have to turn in every uninspired word to class.

Ew.

Please Flunk Day, happen soon so I can sleep.

Evening Knox

I can't imagine anything better than the stars in a dark night, the street lamps hanging low and white like a mist. Just coming from rehearsal, and the dark swing of jazz is replaced by the late evening air and a string quartet playing on the stairs, just playing. The trains are running on both side of the campus, and the ambient noise of Knox is a lullaby keeping time with the musicians. It's cool, and dark, and your feet in sandals get wet when you take a short cut across the grass. Night dew, gracing the green after the sun has left, and the cooling air deposits its water on the lawn. Spring, if not entirely decided as the season, is in your step--you vivify; the music, the clacking of the tracks, the dew, the cool evening, they all caress your senses. You are a tingle in their wake, and the violin follows you all the way around Seymour, bouncing off the buildings to find you even around corners, when you can no longer turn and look for the four figures on the pavement, an afterthought.

The sanctity of the moment makes song in your throat, and you're humming a dreamy air to yourself and whoever has their window open on the second floor even as your keys jingle and you're home and writing.

Knox is pretty awesome.