Life seemed puzzling in a way. Lunch and dinner irrevocably piled upon one another like buttered hotcakes. 16 car pileups of hysteria all around.

For one day we paused, staring blankly forward with pregnant fascination, exchanged quickly in peculiar whispers and asides.

The clocks had stopped.

I used to enjoy looking at the clock every three minutes during lunch, just to assure my place in the universe was secure. Part of all us Obies stood aside for an afternoon, hampered in peculiar pockets by people sporting luxuriously inconvenient digital watches and analogous analogs.

And still they stand now, in stasis, everywhere across campus and town. As if this place were far enough out of civilization. Come monday, lazy people shall rejoice and snicker at coming in 5 minutes late.

.

.

I sat by the side of a building tonight trying to read. The generators across from me drowned out the night. Streaks of white noise crawled into my ears, tentatively stroking me like the chemistry book in my hands.

I looked up into the orange lamplight, caught for a moment in re-experiencing something all over again. The emotion was genuine, though. Flakes of rain twirled down and spiraled toward me; mad little droplets skydivers, drunk and whirling toward imminent impact. My umbrella was tucked behind my back, the handle resting on my sternum.

The rain started beating down, so I locked my hands together to keep hold of the umbrella. The elbows did a fair job of holding my place. I abandoned the site when someone up there was obviously passing the 40 around.

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