IN CLASS. A professor squawks with the effortless screech of a parrot. The girl next to me receives a baby in an electronic message. Pen clicks. The blue one is the only one that works. My face begins to enlighten and I count all the bones in my face. Two, maybe three. Ethical nihilism is beginning to look like the easiest way out of thought. The masses are we, running from the treadmills in our heads.
WALKING. The breeze settles upon the greenness of the grass, restless. Poems begin spewing from my steps, but I cannot hold them in. A man listens to music too loudly and runs off the beat. As the sky erases its being, the oxygen disappears. Gray building, gray plant, gray steam. Soon I walk within my own rhythm and the leaves appear to dance.-Alex Fiola