Your first lab assignment is to study a tree. Your classmate misunderstood the assignment. He didn’t hand in a lab report, but the wedding is in April.
The food is the dining hall is visibly seasoned. It tastes of nothing. Is it your eyes or your tongue deceiving you?
A man plays his bagpipes down by the docks as the sun rises, and thinks no one can hear him.
It is your third Marx seminar. No one discusses communism.
The Boathouse is looking for two new stewards.
It is 9:59. The entire room has been sitting in silence since the opening question. You don’t remember the opening question. There was no opening question. You look up and see you’re alone. It is Sunday.
The boy sitting next to you says he got in on a basketball scholarship. You’ve never met a member of the basketball team. You wonder how long it will take him to realize.
Near the end of September, someone mentions the bagpipes and they immediately cease.
There’s a quad under the quad, if you know where to bury yourself.
One day, a student isn’t in class. His chair is empty for the rest of the semester.
There are non-Johnnies on campus. As they cross the boundary we all feel their presence.
The student handbook says to report strangers on campus. The people taking photographs are unfamiliar, and yet, we do not report them.
Every event scheduled to be in the Boathouse is canceled the day before. The Boathouse doesn’t exist.