10.28

I have no call to be here, but my byronic melancholy drove me out of doors. I pace and I cry and I cry out: oh, God! Give me purpose in life. I'm lost and alone.
I it's cold out. I roll down my sleeves. It's cold out. I pace on. Wander? Don't mind if I do.

I haven't found my meaning before I hear a pale, wordless scream from the woods. My head snaps up. A third of all women are raped before the age of thirty. I hope it's nothing; kids are playing ghost. A second scream rips out of the woods. Two? No. Three. I turn. If it was me, I would want some passer-by to turn. I walk into the woods. Nothing. Campus safety arrives. I leave.

Forty minutes and five empty, wordless screams. The campus safety official says there's still been nothing.

I should have run.
If there had been words, I would have run.
I should have run.
In the future, I'll sprint.