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Archangel.

  Accelerating    down    parallel    rusted    beams,    the    whirr       and       buzZ 
  Bellowed      and     mercilessly     shattered     fragile     eardrums,       violentlY
  Commanding      attention.     I       sat     alone    –    it    was    half     past    siX –
  Draped       between      the      sunset’s      lethargic     gray and orange    melloW.
  Empty    souls     spoke    elsewhere,    listening to  iPods, watching portable TV, 
  Feigning a sort of companionship  along     the     way.     I      hopelessly     strU-
  Ggled      to     make     sense     of      direction     in     the      dawning      nighT:
  Huntington   ?    Broadway   ?    Auburndale   ?    My    stop…   did     I     misS
  It? As    the    sun    grew    wearier    and    the    artificial   lights    took    oveR,
  Just     when      my      eyelids     gave     up,     a      man    who   seemed   uniQue
  Kindled   my    dying    enthusiasm.    As    we    began    to    talk    and     swaP
  Lives, it occurred to    me    that    I   was confiding in him    after    one     hellO,
  More or less.     But     we    already    shared    too  many things    in    commoN. 
“Never    dare to  give up faith,”  he   said,    his    voice    suspended    in    dreaM,
“Or,    even     if    you’re    not    religious,    to    withhold   a tale you   can   telL.”
  Perfectly        constructed      words      imbued      in    truth’s      boiling    stocK
  Quietly   tiptoed  their    way    into    my    conscience.    He    said    his    dayJob
  Revolved   around    a    routine   that   he   hated,    that    if    he    had   one wI-
  Sh, he would become a  writer.  I    saw    him     fruitlessly    trying     to    pusH 
  Tears back when he told of his mother’s multiple  sclerosis. “Not   even   a   joG
  Under     the        bridge    where    she    met     my       father !     Some     stufF
  Vexes you to no end.” He looked away, and I knew nothing   he   said was  a liE.
“We will meet again,” he said before getting off the train. And such   a   curtaileD
eXposure     might    never    mean    much   to    anyone,    yet   his   nyctophobiC, 
  Yellow jubilance convinced me that yes,  we  will  meet  again,  after  we  climB
  Zenith    after    zenith,    after      awakening     from     ignorance’s    anesthesiA.
  • Home
  • Art
  • Poetry
    • Grade 11
    • Grade 12
    • College
    • The Rest
  • Prose
  • Research
  • Songs
  • Tourette
  • Teaching
    • BIOL142
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  • Contact