In that soggy mess that wished desperately to be the first day of spring, a grey stone church loomed enormous in the mist over endless rows of graves. It was just like Zoë dreamed of, shrouded in bespoke fog. She had spring break, I had four classes I was more than ready to skip. Only one thing could spoil the setting for a perfect explore: a locked door. More about that later… first we had a wide open church to see!
A congregation of pigeons formed the only flock remaining in the moldering pews, their flapping wings the only approximation of the falling organ’s hymns.
We didn’t dare look inside…
What better to follow that than a mandatory two hour recital of organ music at Eastman, the second half of which consisted of many, many disturbing interpretations of this:
Finally free from twelve-tone tyranny, we wasted most of the afternoon getting lost on wrong buses looking for nonexistent drains, and pondering the sealed doors of the psych ward. For lack of anything better, there was always a subway.
Believe it or not, this worked. There was paint in those cans!
Let’s play some Jenga, motherfuckers!
