Nico Niquo brings it all back with this absolutely dreamy mix, memories of smoking secretly in the belly of the building, of the laundry room, of the piano on the first floor, which was otherwise empty apart from a few hard sofas and an also-empty kitchen, which people would play, high school musicians, Colin, Michael, David, during Quiet Hours, Maureen, the RA, a fashion student, who would often purge herself of clothing in large sweeps, much of which was adopted by me, like the cobalt blue pleated skirt cinched at the waist that for some reason I later gave away, 11 AM class, the silence of the library, the bound periodicals, JSTOR access, sculptures everywhere, the drab gym, not showing up, getting hooked, sleeplessness, electric fireplaces, getting locked out on the roof in summer, sleeping there, counting planes and charting their courses through the air.
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