The convenience store is squashed in an awkward corner of the large building that houses the dining halls. The patrons are slim youthful sprites, trendy in their movements and their purchases. I feel like a clunky and dumb sparrow among flamingos. I feel old and impractical.
Other stuff: Rapture Index. Stockbrokering the world's ills. Checkershadow Illusion. My eyes got tricked like everyone else's until I blocked out the surrounding squares. Chicago Poems. By Carl Sandburg. My favorite:
Fog
THE FOG comes on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
