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  • this is a memory from steinbeck studios where 16mm film is cut and taped together, frame by frame. I never thought in the same place — where i spent all my wednesday nights pulling every little bit of frustrated strength i have in me to finish my projects — such tender compassion could exist. our faces lit only by the dimming light of providence street lamps leaking in from the window, we peered at our 16mm footage on a tiny screen while listening to a song he composed, fingers entwined, a fire in our chests, the smoke rising out of our winter bodies, as we slowly climbed the octaves of human joy. i tensed my visceral nerves and felt a tiny humming deep inside my heartbeat. this is the sound of fulfillment maybe. potential. a feeling i lost somewhere in the canyons of collegiate academia. it came back to me with such limber suprise. smooth and ethereal like this music, played in reverse, ebbing out slowly from rolls of magnetic sound tape.

    it is november now. as we climb the hill back to our apartments and houses at two in the morning after studio, we can see our pallid breaths rising up from our lungs. ten years ago, in the silly imagination of my youth, I would have called this the breath of dragons. today i would call it the white of our voices made visible as we speak in the warm language of revelation against the cold autumn air.

    december will only be colder.
    the snow will rise to our shivering knees and college hill will freeze into ice. maybe you and i, will steal trays from the cafeteria, sit on them, and race each other down the snow-covered nickerson green. maybe we’ll fall face down into the feeble snow and preserve the outline of our bodies in the open chest of mother nature, covered completely in cold, but warmer than we’ve ever known.

    Our minds, like the earth, are shackled to seasons, and I have a gut feeling that within the harsh of this advancing providence winter, we’ll find, in eachother, a visceral and immaculate summer.
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