Time of Death: 10:42pm

SHIT.

Walking through campus the past few days, I've noticed that there's something different about one particular quad. People walk through it and run in and out of the buildings that surround it, but it's hushed. It's still. Like driving through a school zone: all the drivers go 40 mph right up until the "school zone" sign, and they all floor it when their cars are within a few feet of the "resume speed limit" sign. But in the school zone, everything's in slow motion. Everything happens around you.

Flowers are blooming all over Hyde Park right now, and in some places the scent of lavender is heavy enough that you wouldn't know if you stepped in dog shit (thankfully this isn't based on personal experience). But this particular quad is greener than all the rest. The grass, the ivy climbing the walls, the trees–it's so green that everything else is muted by comparison. It's the same kind of green that alerts you to climb in the bathtub or the basement with your radio and some bottled water. It's the green that tells the birds to stop chirping. Pre-tornadic green.

It's how you know a storm is on the way, and that everything is about to be destroyed. Like my thesis. Like my closet.

* * *

current book: Jorge Luis Borges, Collected Fictions
current music: Arto Lindsay, Salt
current socks: brown with lavender toes and heels, and white, silver, magenta, and lavender stars. AND… they smell like chocolate. Trust me, this is maybe the coolest thing EVER. Thanks, Megan!