I tend to wander around campus during finals, meandering through buildings that I’ve never visited during the sweet spot of **No One There** and **Still Open**. Yes, I could do this during the semester, but there’s something almost spiritual about walking through the cobblestone or marble halls of 500 year old buildings, all by yourself. Just you and the building. You and the hallways. The doors are portals to tiny worlds to be discovered. Halls are caverns that have seen riots, food fights, and (well, the 60’s DID happen) crazy orgies. And the hold their secrets to all but the best listeners.
I happen to be a very good listener, and by spring of my third year, I’d advanced to what I can only describe as a communion with the space. I didn’t just hear the rooms. I saw and even spoke with figures the rooms had held on to, in a sort of Trophy kind of way. And that third year, I even touched one.
I had left the Menhasset Agriculture complex, and was about to head to the café, when the sidewalk **literally pointed** another direction. Don’t ask about the pointing, I don’t understand it myself. But when the road you’re walking on doesn’t diverge, but rather urge, you end up at the main library.