s. The wan angel from my dreams peered back at me, smirking. With a soft touch of my horsehair brush, I a

vity of the moon, pulling one in to his sharp lupine eyes. I

er behind me, so close to my ear. She laughed gently. "I'm reminded of Michaelangelo's larger

d my dreamscape trapped in charcoal and graphite. While the other students painted a broader genera of things, I was trapped creatively, possessed

e strange. Her lithe figure was always decked out in retro outfits and flashy vintage jewelry, somehow sensuous amidst the bright colors

all to me, or that the tedium of Paradise Lost drove me mad in British Literature last semester,

nconscious, or, driven mad by it." She examined the sketch the painting was based on that I was referencing, looking at the serpent crown I planned

nt what I know, I guess. That's why I don't consider my

. I have a challenge for you. I want y

ript

our experiences. Real life, no fantasy el

bout as interesting as a hot dog sans condiments and onions? Maybe it was just the ennui every nineteen year old feels- trapped between teendom and twenties- but I was convinced I had nothing valua

id behind such grandiose things as angels wasn't a coinciden

air and yellowish cat's eyes. She'd died in childbirth, and dad rarely spoke of her. My maternal grandparents were unheard of in our household beyond the annual birthday cards they sent. We were, in a wo

pus was a dream, covered in thick snow from last night, with Narnia-like lampposts guiding students under darkened silver skies. At the center of New Campus was a sundial ringed by hedges a

the probability of being alive) had mercy. Getting stuck in line at the Sadler dining hall for dubious vegetables and some kind of meat that might have been bu

priced Chinese dive popular with the locals. Retired patrons and college students filled the booths around us. Balinese wall art rounded the r

to party more. There's nothing a little a

I don't

pst