The hallway now is a roller skating rink, and one emerges into what is either the hokey pokey or the team races and in the midst of struggling to pull one's right foot out one is suddenly being propelled forward at unlikely speed by a stranger pushing at one's shoulders. The floor is smooth and waxed and the impossible corner turn ahead seems dangerously unsafe until the disco ball and the strobe light and the uncompromising 1980s pop music suddenly disappear and one is rollerskating along an empty hallway. There doesn't seem to be a compelling reason not to, the hallway is sanded smooth and the skates, though heavy, are propelling one forward with delightful speed, until the carpeting returns and roller skates are no longer a worthwhile accessory.
It would be nice to have a room / you could not enter / except in your mind" from "Parlor" by Rita Dove
reading the article about neuro-enhancers in the New Yorker, and distressed that these reports rarely mention the perspectives of onlookers; it is heartbreaking to watch friends disappear into a haze of Ritalin or pot and become washed out shadows of who they once were [even with my own moralizing laid aside for a moment].
weather the clouded perception of days of cold damp drizzle