behold. this is cascadilla place, the annual mansion. annual how, you ask? every year, the sky overhead turns grey. the shrubs die, and dewey delusions collect on our windowpanes. it’s that time of year.
Here is a magical place, and the babble of flowing magic is complacency. Almost four-hundred nest here, and I am one of them. The anomie lifts as I move in. There are rules. Here, we are welcome guests for a stay of exactly two semesters. Here, reality is a dream, and we dream an illusive purpose: the harvesting of bittersweet academic honey. Curb your aspirations, student; we live well, we work hard for the harvest, and that is noble enough. When we awaken, society will surely accept us with open arms.
The gorge that obscures is also beautiful. Few guests walk down these steps during their stay at the Cascadilla. Sometimes, when I look over the rocky railing while rushing to class, I find a friend in the rushing waters. We have much in common with each other. We flow down channels carved by homogeneity. “Today, as every day, we learn to embrace mediocrity.“
But we part here, friend, because our broken friendship must end.
The Elements, by Wojtek Kwiatkowski
Flamingo, by Max Billder
Otra del Remo, by Jon Saul Santos Diaz
