Fireside "Uomini D'Onore"

the last track

The ground has retained its overstated hardness, or perhaps my insoles have just worn out. I recognize

the lack of give from a few months ago and wonder if the ground is still frozen, despite the slightly warmer weather. Peaks at fifty degrees and we're all walking around with exposed knees and flip-flops. That's how it goes though. With ignored, unmoisturized fingers and a seemingly minute shred of hope for warmer weather the populous grabs hold of the day. I've done the same, to a lesser degree, and for a while I was regretting it. My sinuses caked every morning as I curse the heater directly next to my bed for drying out the air, the humidifier forgotten underneath, and the hall director, not thirty feet from my door, wakes up slightly more annoyed, her pillow now supplied with a rosiness before absent. She will report this to me later on in the day, as I tred on the slightly more forgiving economy carpeted floors of this dorm, returning from class.

This return to my room happens, on a normal Monday, three times: eleven, one and three. Today, I woke

up early for a meeting with my professor which would be canceled along with class as I walked into the Communication Department’s doors, a to-go bag with bacon, egg and cheese on a croissant toasted in my left hand, hot “Lemon Lift” tea in my right and an apple in my hoodie’s left pocket. The trek up the three flights wasn’t an easy one as I was helped through doors the whole way – a testament to the days where people at this university opened doors for the encumbered. I ate my croissant on a bench in front of the English Department Office, flakes drifting from my mouth onto the plate below, watching a few people move down the halls, telling me that they were already busy. I nodded and tried to swallow quickly to respond with a “yeah” or an “I hear ya” without the sputter of crumbs synonymous with hurried chewing.

I returned to this again on my walk back to my room, an hour early. The apple was beaten along with all

it’s siblings and I had to choose one from in the bin at the coffee shop. It tasted no different, although I’m sure it should have, happy that I had removed the round sticker and stem earlier. Discoloration presented itself to me as I removed the bite from my mouth. A kind of premature oxygenation that only bruising can provide. I studied it for a moment and was pulled away by the interaction between two homeless men. One of them pulled a cart that I’ve seen on sale at Kroger for five, ninety-nine, the other sat on a concrete bench on the side of the road. It reminded me of Chicago and of walks down Michigan Avenue. The ground would be retaining its overstated hardness, and new cracks would present themselves due to water which had seeped in, expanded in winter and relaxed in March. Even the cement and asphalt of Chicago seems more pleasant and yielding than the grass and dirt on my walk from my room to class each morning.

Then, I’m told by the cleaning lady that it will snow tonight, and I wish I could watch dissimilar, white

flakes fall from anywhere but my mouth in my parents house or an apartment in Chicago instead of from an obtuse cinderblock room.

What’s the reason for this entry? I haven’t written anything in a while. That’s about it.