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Cicada Days
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((Irene Djezari continued from Airline Food))

Irene's thoughts ran, wanting for gold. Webber's Tolstoy essay. She'd left most of the relevant papers, the tickets to her runaway mental train, somewhere in the luminiferous aether. That was to say, she had no idea. Maybe in a pile in the girl's locker room office, maybe at home half smothered by her own tie-dye bed sheets. But her mind had an overpopulation of ideas anyways:

Compare and contrast the style of realism. The digital tone death knell of the archaic and classic, the high-brown nature of man brought with earth shattering finality into the dirt where she belonged. The last and greatest work of an era, at least according to old dead white people(TM). Irene was inclined to agree on the merit of the sheer scale of the work alone, but modern work was... well, more modern. Yung Leo's diction fell just slyly short of the sort of drabble that pretentious teen and no less pretentious post-modernist enjoyed. It was too clean, too pure... Something... Something...

Uh, well. The thoughts were all at least decent.

Sure most of them weren't exactly airtight enough to pass for a proper literary analysis-slash-criticism. But hey, she was going to forget most of them by the time she sat down to actually bang out the essay. She'd have plenty of time to thresh the wheat from the chaff then. Oh. Maybe a biographical element, touch on the actual author. Actual death of Tolstoy sometime in the early 20th century aside Irene refused to believe that he was really dead in the context of her thoughts on his massive tome. DOTA be damned. Only LOL was acceptable. If she recalled correctly Mrs. Webber had mentioned that had some sort of spiritual awakening later in his life, developed a profound form of contrarian Christian canon...

Speaking of Christian canon.

She could tell this book was related to The Bible because it had the words 'The Bible' on it in block lettering. Irene regarded it's typeface neutrally, her eyes laminated with glaze as she stared straight through the many pages worth of 'Word' of god. Religion was something she considered herself on the fence about. Another thing that had been dirtied, brought to earth by the last century's worth of circular progress. Her brain was too modern to waste the time. There was another face though, and that one Irene regarded more warmly, a short fuse of a smile igniting her face. Not the most familiar face but Irene was able to at least dredge up a name from history almost as ancient as the periods they were each studying.

"Hi Abby. Studying?" Sans further progression of their conversation Irene sat herself and her behind on the sun-kissed grass, nearly right up against to the other girl. Warm like a bed, she liked that. She wasn't inclined to relax, in the presence-slash-pseudo-personal-space of a relative stranger. She'd probably want to get up in a few anyways, in a spastic fit fueled by arbitrary energy.
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Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses · Grounds