compton

It is 4 oclock, the last afternoon, early evening, or simply the time that is clocked by your 3 hours awake. The majority of it has been spent at a desk filled with post-it notes of things you have to do, but what you do instead is write several papers that are postmarked over due for this weeks classes. The computer is your illumination in the room because the windows only let the light of a gray rainy day inside. The absent sunshine and inspiration must come from your oversized History of Art book depicting other peoples early inspiration turned painting, sculpture, architecture, and print. The hour moves on and on to the next until you realize that your ass has lost its shape and is a mere mirror reproduction of the cheap chair provided by the university. You look over at your cup of joy, hot tea turned cold from when you forgot about it. Your tea, your joy, you are focused until now. It needs a refill, you need fulfillment.

You get up and stretch your limbs, stretch your pants over your pajamas, your shoes over the two layers of socks that line your feet because the floor is an artic carpet that never reaches room temperature, never melts into comfort. You get layered because you know you have to be ready. You begin to sear like a piece of meat on a hot grill, still frozen on the inside though. You uncover the lock to your door and open this gate to the hallway which is usually filled with the other wondering seven guys you live with but luckily today its not. Making the track straight ahead, to the right, down the stairs, so close you can breathe it in. One creek, two creeks, how many creeks usually depends on the weather and the Fall, which it is, just a season short of winter. You passed the last heat duct on the second floor and now you are at the bottom, at the last door before the prison cell of a foyer, the heavy gate opens (that sound), the frosty hostile air hits and urges you to move on quickly to the second door. You step in to this living room and the sound of the TV comes to you as it has no soul watching it, it says it is lonely and you walk on by. The light from it reaches out trying to pulling you in but the kitchen is your goal, then the cramped dining room where no one eats. There would be inches of dust on this table it if it werent for all the beers that swept across it. One last door, one last breathe of tepid air and tepid living conditions on a tepid day. (look it up). One door now gone and pushed to the side leaving you faced with the porch. Now - in your pocket, take a step, in your hand, now on the chair, in your mouth, and down your throat a trip for a smoke and a chance to relax.