Simply Radishing

I know what it is to be a stranger in the world. I know the uncanny sense of unreality. College, a set of halls lined with burnished oak, gleaming like a mausoleum, gleaming with the unhealthy glow of enormous tree sections in museums of natural history. Those vast cross-sections with arrows captioned "Da Gama discovers Pacific" or "Liberty Bell forged." The hall seems wrongly preserved. To walk in it, to weep in it is like fucking your grandmother. All I remember are empty, dull halls.

Think of the creeps and beauties and fucking future leaders of the world who left their slime trails here. Think of the waxy buildup from their horrible, fragrant breath! I don't want to touch anything. I might be infected with anything, anything at all - malaria, disease, jealousy, who knows. Oh the dramas, the melodramas, the historico-tragedies, the tragicomedies. Maybe the whole thing has the stench of death because this is the place for the most hopeful, the most possible, the most capable. And what do they find in life? Corporeality. Deep, deep in their hearts of hearts are their greatest dreams, their keenest wishes - to fly, to see the beginning and the end. The oldest man on his oldest day lying in his oldest bed dreams of soaring and believes he can.