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This is going to be a problem I think as I stare across the room on the third floor Eyeing the last tenant to enter the apartment. She’s nothing like what I’ve seen before Her hair,
At the early hour Hearts are still   Echos are devoured The air is chill   This campus is not hers She's not the right kind   But she just wants To get to class on time
The smells of paper, pen and pencil Complemented by the sounds of the rush Of students new and old Of professors young and old Inhabiting this temporary world Of classes, grades and growth.  
Pillows of cotton settle drifting like ghosts masking the view of towering stone hair curling in the palpable air drooping eyelids, heavy breath heels on concrete clicking in step
Look Up And see the  big red building spreading out in front of you like a horizon begging you  to reach out and touch it. Home. And you stand
No room Last resort Loud bang Pothole shakes the car Cracked asphalt Hot under the sun Late again Stop Find a spot Trudge to class Through green forested path
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