thinking, light dripping across foreheads, illuminated … always the illumination of darkness that binds me … i can hear talk of class and people, of procrastination and insecurity, of obvious sex and attentive smiles … but they spill over in a breeze like humanity and uncertainty, of hope and loss, noddingly acceptable but hesitatntly thorough and never too far from shadowed corners of safety … the ones with bright eyes and brighter intentions, shouting in whispers and glasses under the light fixtures that keep me weighted for the moment … contemplating the reproductions of if stark reality could be paralyzed and illumination could be thought of with more than a wincing, cringing discomfort … sensibility usually fears things that are unknown … while i, i enjoy the light shards across plains of landscape everydays … hard desk, worn pencils, quivering hands and such … gravity is not always the executioner to leaning bridge suicides and i am not always the light victim here …