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  • I could spend hours staring at the intricate patterns cast by the coat hanger on the stark white wall above my desk at work. I could sit for hours, meditating, marveling at the complexities, the shading, the art sleeping there in between shadow and light.

    I could spend night after night sitting underneath one of the many grand trees in front of the Stonehenge Courtyard, gazing at the white crystal moon through calm glazed eyes, picking out its craters, almost able to feel its pearly glow on my skin... picking out which room in Crevecoeur Hall is mine, and how tiny it is compared to the rest of the building, and how tiny the building is compared to the rest of the campus, and how tiny the campus is compared to the beautiful green mountains of Vermont that lay around me in a vast lush expanse of earthy perfection.

    I could spend all my life gazing out over those mountains. Those rolling, rocky mountains coated in a beautiful tapestry of emerald green treetops upon which a coat of fiery orange foliage is spread like some beautiful disease across the countryside. These beautiful stretches of mountains that somehow manage to escape the blinded eyesight of the everyday passersby. Except me.

    I could spend every single moment of my time admiring the small things in life. The details. The little raised brushstrokes on the paintings, the spaces between the tiles, the little patterns made by the pulp of the paper on which I write. I could spend my whole life entranced by these things.

    I could, but I don't. I could, but we can't. Not yet, anyway.
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