The Unknown: The Red Line.
  Dear friend, now when a flood of paper comes to rest in explicable stacks across campus. Now when sighing library workers face stacks of unshelved books stretching to the ceiling, the majority of the patrons dissipated for intersession. Now when overflowing blue recycling stacks are turned to by weary janitorial staff. Now when a haze of text clears and one stands looking down at cars in need of repair, dirty floors, the soulless utility of your temporary lodgings here against the bewildering impoverished razed prairies and agricultural blight beyond. And knowing that this bridge of theory will collapse the moment any water flows beneath it. Flowing towards the debts that channel deep underground into hissing sulfur caverns. You fold your degree into a tiny boat, set it in the current, and, very gently, try to step inside.  

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