You remember the thick stalks of green grass and dreams of the rowing team, it sticks a knife in your chest and you feel bad. The old mansions at Brenau look like the freshly whipped slaves must have enjoyed maintaining them in such perfect splendor, the white paint resembling something majestic, the flower boxes ornate and puzzled together in polite prisms, the huge cathedral-like windows look like giant eyes that sparkle like chandeliers in a lavish ballroom, there is a statue of a feminine, but stalwart tiger guarding this place, the dorms are the size of coffins and the pillowcases that come with the beds are brown and ugly, the carpet is a dulled collection of soured, shopworn-puke and ancient, black globes of what I think once was chewing gum or candy, a forgotten portrait is on the wall of some foreign girl with incurable acne, there is a faint smell of some unknown foodstuff or neglected pussy smell, a white Samsung phone charger is tangled on the floor half under a bed, and there is a small pink sock resting there as well.
You're only a child, some sort of defective and quick to anger "prodigy", and you find yourself crying and sitting on a bed in the approaching dark-alone, staring at the shadow-dance of the windowsill and world aglow outside, there are towering drink machines in the hallway, an orange hue illuminating the yellowed maze of ugly brown doors, and outside the double-glass-school-doors are dotted ground lights in the dwarfish shrubbery, they look like strange alien orbs that cannot fly and have landed in a tiny forest.
Time passes as it does, and it's cold at four in the morning, you can see your breath, later the sun will rise and shine on you, your delicate golden hair will be as bright as the entire day.