Unlike most places, Green Bay had this indescribable clearness that wouldn't be missed in any other place: the sky was stale with perverted oxygen molecules that found themselves on the soccer fields of the nearby elementary school; the sun beat down rather than shined; and there was this distinct feeling of isolation that only a whistling empty lot could make you feel. As far as the eye could see, nothing, upon nothing but perhaps trees, asphalt, and hills upon hills with green grass – on top of this were buildings made of limestone. Upon one of these hills was a plateau where my school rested, I sat on the adjacent hill, looking down from my nestled spot next to a tall elm. My grandpa told me that such elms were dying out, one by one.
And this thought was like me – nestled on the adjacent hill with the bulk of my other, important thoughts elsewhere beyond that little spot. But like all my thoughts, this one particularly concerned me, as if the notion of a present danger towards this tree was there and not there all at once. Stumbling down the hill, illusions of my grandpa's bald scalp, crooked nose – then green grass, hence the word "stumbling." Perhaps this doesn't make much sense to you, and you're wondering why I'm thinking about elms when there's a school there, sitting on the plateau; but what's there is emptiness.
It'd be impossible to go inside the school without getting up, and I was happy where I was. I was thinking about an elm tree, which now passed my mind, falling upon only images of my classmates playing some violent and gay game: freeze tag. There was something missing, and that was that these kids kept appearing and disappearing. Each time I looked up, they would appear and then blur out, and as I became more aware of this, they blurred into blurs of blurrity.
Once a blur became into being, more things shone themselves – such as the lack of swings, so I made them be there because I like swings. And I got up to swing on them, but they weren't there. As my foot reached before me, I stumbled – stumbled hard. I hit the grass, and there I was: nestled on the adjacent hill.
And this thought was like me – nestled on the adjacent hill with the bulk of my other, important thoughts elsewhere beyond that little spot. But like all my thoughts, this one particularly concerned me, as if the notion of a present danger towards this tree was there and not there all at once. Stumbling down the hill, illusions of my grandpa's bald scalp, crooked nose – then green grass, hence the word "stumbling." Perhaps this doesn't make much sense to you, and you're wondering why I'm thinking about elms when there's a school there, sitting on the plateau; but what's there is emptiness.
It'd be impossible to go inside the school without getting up, and I was happy where I was. I was thinking about an elm tree, which now passed my mind, falling upon only images of my classmates playing some violent and gay game: freeze tag. There was something missing, and that was that these kids kept appearing and disappearing. Each time I looked up, they would appear and then blur out, and as I became more aware of this, they blurred into blurs of blurrity.
Once a blur became into being, more things shone themselves – such as the lack of swings, so I made them be there because I like swings. And I got up to swing on them, but they weren't there. As my foot reached before me, I stumbled – stumbled hard. I hit the grass, and there I was: nestled on the adjacent hill.
