The Wall of Atwater Hall B: Perspectives

The wall.

Lost son in war: The wall stood before me like an insurmountable obelisk, crafted of carelessly hewn colorless stones. The building itself sits in the ground like a mammouth ship, its smokestacks belching sulfur from the furnaces below. The uniformity is morbid. Like rows of pine boxes.

Just fell in love: Each stone fits into the next, lovingly cradling its shape, conforming to its contours. The wall is endless, we see no beginning or end. Only beauty.

Bored: The wall is grey. Like the world. The stones were cut by some poor soul who spent all his living hours slaving over a pile of rocks, probably sitting in an excavator or something. Then some other guy had to stack them up. Yeah. The wall has some windows, but they’re kind of ugly. Who designs a wall like this anyways? Wait, no, who builds a wall like this?!

Frightened: The wall stood before me, blocking my only route of escape. I stared up at the innumerable hewn stones, each fitting impossibly into the next, leaving not even a ledge on which to grasp.