April

As I sit in an English lab with the feel of a construction site, its walls concrete, unadorned red brick, and naked steel ribs, I contemplate the meaning of life. I’m waiting for something. Literally, I’m waiting for 6 p.m. tonight, when I have an appointment to meet. Other than that, I seem to be waiting for genius to strike. So far, it hasn’t. So I stare at this screen, my contacts drying against the weight of my corneas, and attend to the silence.

Qu’est-ce que je vais faire? J’ai envie d’envier. Je veux faire tout: mais quoi, exactement?

The sun has broken through the clouds of somber Oregon. April offers up herself to whomever will take her to enjoy. Her idealism is perfect, and will almost certainly drown in tears again. But for now, her garments are fresh in opal sheerness, soft in hanging moss.

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