I can breathe. I take time to notice that it is frigid and drizzly and miserable outside between the agriculture building and my room. I walk very, very slowly, I have to make up for rushing all morning.

I stop by and see a friend in the coffee shop. I tell her about my morning and my future writing a ten page paper, and she feels better about herself. I’m exhausted. I don’t have any money on me, looks like more microwave action for dinner.

When I get back to my room I call home. Mom is doing fine, it rained there too. My brother is doing homework. All seems to be well.

I use my microbiology book for a stepping stone, traversing, vaulting across my room. I’m lucky to have long legs. I sit and write to calm myself down some more. No stories or poems, collections of words, I just like the feel of making the letters.