The Arrival

It is late morning as he arrives. The stale odor of old unread literature fills his lungs. He tries to ignore the nausea that accompanies this smell, but it overcomes him. He ducks into a nearby men's room to catch his breath, only to be accosted by the equally stale but much more offensive odor of disinfectant covering up dried urine.

Powerless against these smells, he decides to quicken his pace to a less pungent region of the building. He walks up a ramp to find a flock of likeminded individuals with which he can converse for the twenty minutes before he had to be in class.

Together, they unravel an elaborate story that has absolutely no basis in reality and laugh boisterously in between observations that everyone present is indeed not of sound mind.

Passers-by do so quickly, pretending that this gathering of individuals is not creating a commotion, the more daring ones rolling their eyes or chortling to themselves as they go.

These are the brightest moments of the day. Very little critical thinking is necessary, and there are no assignments that are to be turned in upon arrival. It is a chance to unwind before the day begins.

We are the underground of the music program, but without us the entire system would collapse. We congregate because we fit in with relatively few other crowds. We bounce quasi-intellectual ideas off each other for input. We complain about the system as it currently functions. We have taken over the most comfortable chairs in the building.

We are composers, and we are a force to be reckoned with.

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