This is precipitation but up here you know it will be snow. It consistently does that, do you see the colors?
North Quad Dining Hall, 11:00AM, 11/19/2023
the spirals swirl across the screen. they are always moving, mutating, out of formation like a line of ants trekking down from the 44th degree parallel. what do they call it now? a new version? an update? nothing is as pervasive as the thought of change, even when the seasons changes every year. on the last sunny day people line the streets of the diag and smile wistfully. what a day! a day filled with weak sunshine, a goddess recovering from a cold — or perhaps about to succumb to one.
I see all the pictures of people posting the snow. They are just the out-of-state kids.
Pierpont Commons Basement, 3:00PM, 11/27/2023
in a different world, the sun shines every day of the year. further north it lies behind a wall of rain. the snow is soft, gentle — for now. the snakes lay their eggs; come back in january and fight off their young. when the earth crumbles the children will sleep soundly in their beds. when the sky falls the children will stick their tongues out and press angels into the rubble.
the day after the big game the clouds begin to spit. perhaps the heavens put money on the buckeyes?
It doesn’t matter, I’m always cold! Remember the first time we went fratting? I was freezing!
That was the first week of August!
Yeah, I know. I wore that sweatshirt because it was so cold!
Sigma Chi, 9:00PM, 11/29/2023
the night is a blanket in only the metaphorical sense. the early night is warmer than the early morning, as if the earth were a giant bowl that was heated in a cosmic microwave. clouds and oceans and fractured ozone fractals decorate the outer edges, cooling and warming at whim. the contents are scalding, in more ways than one. you look up the videos of the smooth, perfectly spherical aluminum foil balls. my skin pricks up in danger. one inch ahead, one press of a button, and the world turns black. but for whom?