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had struck, I would sit in the common room an write for a bit, generally ending up
with half of a decent poem and five crumpled pages of pure dreck, scribbled out
furiously. Once or twice I managed to bang out a solid short story, generally of too
personal a nature for me to not hide within the depths of my laptop, never to be
seen by my eyes again, or by anyone else's. After a cold shower (McDaniel water
only gets worse over the summer), I would collapse onto my bed, and fall asleep,
wrapped in the oppressive heat and the cool grip of some half-assed semblance of
inner peace.
I still do that drive sometimes. It's one of many routes I've built since that sum-
mer, and my favorite from McDaniel by far. And so when the world weighs down, or
the world begins to simply lack comprehension, one can know where they will find
me.
My grandmother would pass away the week after my program ended, on her
own terms and at peace with her fate. Whether the same could be said of me is
still a daily debate.
