I've gone away to school dears, far away to the mountains where Autumn kicks up her skirts early and whirls round and round with old man Winter until they two collapse in a pile indistinguishable. The twilight here feels, as if its always known you, and the buildings watch over us as they have for countless generations. Tradition is the most important thing you can have and the ghosts hold it tight. They creak through the abandoned mill across the river, faithfully blowing their mournful horns, a call to work, though no one answers but us anymore. We go to class with ghosts, go to sleep, eat with them, as many as the living here; the city even a ghost of its former self, struck down by the new age of computerization.
