Last Thursday the sky turned white while I was in class. Not opaque white, and not milky but like some electrical discharge. “Don’t come visit me at work,” Mary Carradine said, it’s supposed to pour.

And it did, in a way. I sat outside the bus shelter waiting to feel raindrops but was, instead, drenched in an explosive moment as the white shattered into applause leaving only gray.

I’m having a love affair with Massachusetts. I know you wanted to leave. You all wanted to leave and it’s always been enough for me to come back with wet feet. When I say that I feel weirdly like some frail Alcott sister, withering over her keyboard. Mary asked me and I told that I wished it could be overcast six days a week– the seventh day could be sunny as a gift to everyone depressed by the weather: don’t saying I’m not generous.

On the seventh day I’ll go underground.

Because I care about you I will brave the frightening electronic turnstiles– so frenetic and cavalier in their swishing that I can still only bring myself to approach the closed ones when exiting. I distrust the motion sensors to keep the path clear for me and expect to be sliced in half by the transparent plates as if I’m an absurd component of a television knife-demonstration. I will die casually while the turnstile slices through a screen and then a new leather shoe with practically no damage to the blade

and

(oblivious to their audiencelessness.)

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