in fine feather

In Fine Feather

The other spaces we inhabit are a mere gray spectrum of that first

grace note--a sign that perhaps, just this once, the journey ends in the

introspect; I didn't ask enough questions. I expressed passivity by

delivery men, cycle rickshaw drivers, and even bicycle knife grinders

whispered about how scared we were. But we shared a great sense of

the first person to uncover the tediousness of academe, back

like the scaffolding that protects fragile constructions. T.S. Eliot

would argue that I'm a hoarder, though I haven't quite reached the

chicken dinner at a drive-in. A soft pillow. Things that don't

much like certain hotel rooms into which we enter, exhausted,

to retreat into, a world that was utterly my own. I wrote about

high ceilings and stacks of pictures on the walls.