It feels like the sort of night one ought to participate in criminal activity. I'm dressed in my black and white striped shirt. The night is cool, dark, hushed. There is a stirring of a breeze and my heart feels restless. It shifts and skirts uneasily. It has for the last few weeks but on an evening like tonight when its so painfully quiet that you want to scream, break the calm, unleash the wild, passionate beast within. You reach that point when you need to do something out of the ordinary, reckless, potentially illegal.
Its the sort of night I'd go rob the MOA. I'd use a glass cutter and slice through the doors. I'd slip through past the gift shop full of posters, scented pens and Monet umbrellas. I'd stealthily glide through the shadows until I found something that struck my fancy. Its been a while since I've been to the MOA. I haven't seen anything except for the flaming mustache. I could steal the flaming mustache. That seems an appropriate sort of crime for a sinister individual like myself. Besides, mustaches are a mar to society. Why should BYU celebrate art that celebrates an atrocity like a mustache.
It would make an interesting movie to have an aspiring artist steal their own painting from a museum and then somehow have it anonymously recovered in hopes that it would get their art to lay claim to fame and fortune. This would be the perfect night for such a crime.
Its Thursday Night and I didn't dance, didn't play frisbee. I went to a service activity and listened to a lady talk about her health and nieces.
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