Nonfiction

The purple pink and white petals look back at me in a permanent frozen stare. Snow flurries dance above my head, occasionally infiltrating the wool of my coat and destroying themselves on my warm skin. It is November in May. Something is so very unright in the world. I jam the small white buds of my earphones into my flesh. Because here we are an ipod nation. On my walk home I count 5, 10, 16 people attaching their brains to that curious little box of music. I smile knowingly at each of them. Maybe they're listening to Van Halen, or Britney Spears, or an erotic audio book (maybe not). Apple made a killing off of those of us on campus wishing to further separate ourselves from one another. I won't lie, I am one of them. Those white cords that hang knowingly from our necks let would be awkward conversation initiators on the bus know that we wish to travel in peace. It allows the evangelists, the Mormons, and the cult members to save their breath for someone who can't pretend not to hear them.