A chronicle of movement aimed at synchronizing thoughts and keyboards with said movement.


There are no atheists in South Kensington

When the alarms sound, reverberating off each other in disastrous cacaphony, frenzy tears through the mind. What have I done wrong? Whom should I tell I love? Whom should I tell has pastoral eyes or enviable posture?

As it turns out, the alarms woke up because our Soviet roommate Nick encouraged them to do so with very poorly planned steak-cooking that birthed a cloud of smoke. The entire apartment cleared, and a group of about 25 very irritated, loud and unkempt Americans stood next to the park that serves as the focus of the oval of fog-white apartments. And then the RA on call wouldn't pick up her phone. Neither would anyone affiliated with BU. But the fire company did, and they very kindly sent a fire truck with four firemen in helmets to battle the recalcitrant smoke alarm system. But the alarms won, subduing the best button-pressing efforts of London's finest.

We eventually found keys for the alarm box in a downstairs closet. And now I'm writing this. But we're going to watch cricket or some other British fun at a sports pub in Picadilly tonight. Should be ... American.


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