To describe the scenery of the parking lot in front of McCollum on a clouded February day (which is imaginary, as it is already April) shall begin with a needlessly florid description of the half-dead trees. One walks down the walkways in front of the dormitory buildings of KU and one sees the blackness and the brownness of the trees against white-black sky. The sky looks something like a field of cottonballs, watercolor blotches and wet and dank clouds. If it was snowing, then, the striking lines of the dead branches would have been smothered. Let us imagine that it is merely cloudy. With such a supposition, one can see the treelines with an idiosyncratic clarity. The boldness of the pencilwork detailing out the features do not intermingle well with the gradient smotheredeness of a humid winter day, as if there's something sacrosanct about them. Regardless of the relationship between the treelines and the pessimistic weather, the dead trees strike a multitude of images in a seer, walking the walkways in front of the dormitory buildings of KU. Though it would differ from person to person, the first image to occur within this writer's mind is that it looks like it's a heap of skyward claws. Owing thanks to the clarity of the image, the piercing sharpness of the tips of the branches become painfully visible. When the wind shakes the many branches, though, it looks to be more of tickling than clawing. Then this image invisibly drifts into an image of a heap of skyward fingers, begging for someone's embrace, perhaps the sky itself. The motion of the fingers look just too pathetic to be hateful or malevolent, so it must not be. Then, this writer thinks, that's a much more optimistic imagination. Nextly, watching the wet and dank clouds over the horizon reminds me of something cold and artificial, perhaps a stitched-together human being or a stitched-together robot, and the writer finds a similarity between the trees and a lightning bolt. The writer conjures up an iconic image of a lightning bolt lashing at the ground or a tall tree. Beyond the speed of emotion or thought, a shard of pure energy, burning and shining, mindlessly dashes toward the earth. On its roaring path it splits into many branches, some of which fade into the atmosphere and some of which return to the clouds whence it came from, but at least makes contact with its desired object (do note that this is an iconic image.) The tree is struck and it is wrapped within an electric fire. The first to be destroyed is its countless leaves. Within this yellow-red fire are blackened ashing branches, which, if one thinks about it, looks somewhat like the lightning bolt that destroyed it. The half-dead trees on the parking lot in front of McCollum especially resemble these lightning bolts. Though, it's just too short and too many-branched to resemble an honest lightning bolt. Perhaps it's more like a frozen static shock. The sapling bravely swears to reach the sky itself, but after a few years, it loses voltage and its fire dissipates into the atmosphere. The writer prefers to think that if the sapling is capable of having a disposition, then it would feel at least somewhat satisfied. It is a little bit closer to the sky, is it not? But that's just a childish imagination, and the writer laughs at his own silliness. And then to conclude the description of the scenery of the parking lot in front of McCollum on a clouded February day (which is imaginary, as it is already April): the writer, after having written out his imaginations on something as real as dead trees, loses interest in describing this mundane scenery. What else is there to describe? The giddiness of the residents? Silence of the parked cars? Wet and dank clouds? The general atmosphere of apathetic and/or respectful calmness? Surely, any further attempt at aggrandizing something as silly as this will only result in extreme, distasteful pretension and extreme, pretentious tastelessness, with a high chance of lame repetitions and self-conscious stream-of-thought writing. As a gesture of respect to the readers and the writer, the writer abruptly changes his mind and moves onto something else, such as brushing his teeth and realizing how pretentious this practice was.