Date of Award
Bachelor of Arts
Thomas Beauchamp entered my life on a weeknight in early May. I was still squeezed in that cluttered Brooklyn apartment—clothes and sketches and paper plates lay scattered like patchwork all across the floor and the furniture, and the room was lit only by the faint glow shared between my TV and laptop. One of those snaps of leftover winter kept me from opening the window more than a crack, though some air was necessary to keep the smoke from setting off any alarms. What haze remained muddled the electric light and dispersed it all across like headlights in heavy fog—if it were a couple years earlier my eyes might have watered, but my tear ducts had built up quite the tolerance. In those days I kept the blinds closed as much as possible. Even the empty space created by the chunks mysteriously missing could throw me off, get me thinking about things I didn’t want to think about. These were the in-between nights, the loneliest of them (but not the worst, don’t assume). The street offered no escape, just a sense for the origin of the feelings closing in on me. In times like these, when not even TV could break me out of an encroaching bout of anxiety, I called my downstairs neighbor the psychic.
Fletcher, Riley, "ARTMIND" (2023). Honors Theses. 1677.
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