003:

No exorcism, no tragic hero, no Nietzschean joke, no artist’s mistake. Just a rebel child who says nothing outside of shock and tremored conviction.

I want to spell color colour, clamor clamour, favorite favourite. I want to take off, I want it to be now.

But, the strangeness is: some faces here I will never see again. And when I return, I’ll be the one living the last of everything.

I walk out of class, the quad stinks. Late at night guys stalk and scare the geese. I wish the birds would stay, be lovely, but not leave crap everywhere.