The Cult of the Rolling Backpack

They gather from all corners of campus. You never know where you might spot one, lurking, waiting to pounce. Their approach is marked by the ominous clacking of their wheels on cold, hard pavement, a perfect marriage of plastic and asphalt. You’d best get your legs out of the way, because if you don’t, they will trundle right over you. As they reach the base of the staircase, their mating dance may be observed. A soft downwards push on the handle followed by a hard jerk upwards on each step. Their backpacks are extensions of themselves, a graceful arc from shoulder to floor. Their gait is purposeful. They know where they’re going, walking with a determined glint in their eyes. Others cannot pretend to know the burden they bear, marching ever onwards. They roll forever into the sunset, into infinity.

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