The tower is broken, or has fallen…or is under siege by allthefuckingdrones who have found ways of overpopulating, overcrowding and generally overwhelming the collective body by surging to watering holes instead of taking moderate steps in smaller groups.
The stairs are dirty- this school wasn’t ready for us yet. That much is obvious. There is an addict with a long beard in this building. I do not know for certain that he is an addict, but that is his story to me. What he is addicted to- masturbation, xbox live, cocaine…that, I cannot and will not speculate on. But his hair is matted, and the bags under his eyes are somewhere between purple and blue. Maybe he cannot sleep.
Everywhere, familiarity is dying. This would have been my last first day at the watch tower- instead, there was no room. In the atrium, this table screeches, and wobbles precariously (as if too much weight from the right side of my body would destabilize all it stands for)- yet, it is the right side of my mind that works so feverishly and does nothing to the table.
I will be relentless in my final verse. Yes. The watch tower was the site of many musings, it was where things with she-who-will-not-be-named began, and most definitely, where they began to end. It is where I first saw and shall see, and I will get this place back into working order (even if it means I have to bring a screwdriver…and a mop).
Final thoughts? Just one.
Regardless of anything else that may happen in this- my last- semester,
Edgar Allen Poe was a genius.
- The Magician’s Wife
- Not Alone