It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the epoch of FraTwainity, it was the epoch of the Choo Choo Twain, an age of enlightenment, an age of incessant Frosh blues, it was a fountain of beer, it was the fall quarter of despair, everything ahead of us and everything before us to heaven or to hell — in short, Two Twains, one city.
It was the Year of Our Twain 2019, a time of refreshing renewal where the peace and tranquility of Tworth was interrupted by the effervescent clicks of note-taking in LaTeX and the brotherhood of the CPU being the Cardinal Sin of the day. Tweast, however, outside the jurisdiction of Lord Andrew* and the shimmering rays of divine right monarch Katelyn*, was a place of philosophy and shimmering LEDs that changed to the most violet and blue hues of the day. It was a place of contemplation to lay back in the shadows of beer pong and felicity to stare out into the street and contemplate whether freedom lie in the words of John Locke or in the depths of the booze-scented halls that I now lay in.
The cars pass by and I wonder where they are going. Where am I going? Shall I be the shimmering prophet of sacrifice to host a PC effigy in Tworth lounge or sell my soul to the MATH 51 gods? Shall I go to the kitchenette to have the cleanest and tastiest brownies that melt in your mouth, oozing such theobromine to die for or shall I get wasted in the laundry room? Life is about decisions and that four-year plan can wait three BAs later.
Who’s inside? What’s inside? Would Feynman approve of my journeys to Tweast in the scintillations of glitter that dote these mingling halls? My eyes glow in the darkness and a feeling of warmth presides over me as I have been reminded of my dwindling relationship with my computer. Binary speaks the truth. I speak for the keys when I acknowledge their tweastern dominance in the realm of relationships beyond maps, beyond my screen, beyond my phone.
My mind is aglow and I reminisce about the days of yesteryear. The Tweasterlies brush against my hair and there’s that figure of Mark Twain ingrained into my mind to the palpitating sound of Rachimoff. He smiles at me. He winks. “No pain, no Twain,” I whisper to myself as the cold doesn’t bother me anymore.
I slowly bring my cup towards my lip and sigh. Then I run. I run for all those I left behind. I run for my family, my country, my race. This is the shimmering cup of trembling, this is the rustic paradise. The dragons flourish in the distance and the words to “Look Alive” dance through my mind.
Two stories high, I hang off the edge as the moon layers its milky white blanket over the bridge that connects us. It’s the type of darkness that lulls one into a false sense of security, nonetheless, a comforting security in a foreign land. “Do you believe in two dorms, one Twain?” he asks. His face disappears in the shadows of Tworth under his dungeon master’s cloak and the unspoken consensus rings clear. We are Two Twains, one city. We are a pilot of diversity, or more eloquently, a FroSoCo with the parties.
Contact Bronson Sansoni at bsansoni ‘at’ stanford.edu