Hinc lucem et pocula sacra

Summer school is the sweet, sweet taste of IBC root beer, the taste that only comes from a glass bottle, like the bottle I am holding with the hand that is not holding the box of leftover pizza, strolling slowly homeward in the cool night breeze from the bay, looking for stray fireflies and whistling idly. Well, that's not strictly true, let alone grammatically coherent. IBC root beer, despite its undeniably sweet, sweet, taste, is not summer school. Summer school is faculty meeting, assembly, Newspaper class, Chamber music class, and lunch; summer school is also study hall and Tuck Shop. Tuck Shop is when I permit myself the sweet, sweet taste of IBC root beer (the taste that only comes from a glass bottle). I close up the Tuck Shop and walk home, looking for stray fireflies and whistling idly, pondering the many and divers questions attendant on one for whom the time has come to contemplate the impending reality of a post-graduate existence. To wit, having double-majored in Music and Classics, should I spend two more years pursuing an additional B.A. from the department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse, and Celtic at Cambridge University so that I can pick up insular Latin, Old English, Old Irish, and other assorted knowledge pertaining to languages and literature of the medieval British isles (that is to say, knowledge of the sort commonly considered useless, much like my current fields of study, but more so?) To which the answer of course is, "if they'll take me!"