Lucy Ton That ’26
Rigidity married Routine—at 8:06 am, on
November 11th, 2022, when it had been 71
days of the same oatmeal placed on the same
ringed water stain on the same wooden table
in front of the same gabled windows. I have
infinite oatmeal days ahead of me. The
ingredients of a day are very simple. The
base is a grayish sticky slop, you can move a
metal spoon through it in any direction and
it stays the same. I shovel onto it frozen
blueberries and shaved almonds and chia
seeds—just to be healthy. If the oatmeal
isn’t too watery, I’ll pour some milk on the
mixture, wait for the almonds and little
black seeds to float to the surface. The seeds
look like (blackbirds) in the (whitesky). It’s
November, dark at four pm practically. I feel
the peculiar sunlight on the nape of my
neck, through the slant in the window, third
floor, past the stairs, front of the lecture hall.
I’m going mad today.
