I’m in my dormitory.  On my desk lies a shaker cup with the red lid off and turned upside down on the desk displaying the drops of chocolate milk on the inside of the lid. Beside it, a vulnerable worn book lies open after having been excessively read.  A pen is uncapped resting between the pages of the book.  A white dull container of food lies by the window’s shelve with the black glossy fork and knife protruding out from the lid. A fan spins, mounted on the shelve, keeping the air from smelling stiff working in synergy with the wind that is incoming from the open window.  The helicopter above me the fan by me and the laptop in front of me make similar humming sounds. Chants from the late night partiers grow loud; music still blasting across the street. I slowly stand up and push my chair in…

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