Unless the stars align in the fourth dimension, I win the lottery, and heaven rains manna from dark, fulgurant skies, I will never return to study at this school, this institute of art in the Chicago Loop. Instead I will perform anarchic acts of love: I will plant raspberries on golf courses, they grow like kudzu in Memphis, burn like wild brush on fire in the hills of Southern California, away from the salty, beach air.
If I were to return to this school my classmates with whom I came to climb the ladder of degrees would all by now be gone, writers who came to learn the fine art of gliding like a flying squirrel in a squadron, a troupe of performing artists on the flying trapeze, graduates in forget me nots and hoops on fire like lions trained to leap bravely straight through the gyre of heat and flames, the scent of fur singed at the mane, golden yet worn for wear.
Remember me, I doubt you will ever forget our time together, time spent at the local bar, wasting our days and nights drinking and toasting Joyce with Bushmills and Guinness if we got paid that day, if not we drank cheap beer and spoke of better days, when we have enough dough to place a winning bet or send some home to mom and dad, earn their respect, as laughable a choice as studying writing at the local art school, it matters not, I fear.
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