tuesday, wake-up

I'm in that curious non-York again. North of Winters, the pathway leads to that mysterious (to me) other building and goes either around it or through that courtyard area that stretches under a part of it, to where the two rejoin again. I want to visit all our half-remembered nooks and great spots over there again.
Then I'm on a bus with some friends. We're heading south on the huge road that passes the campus -- it's not Keele, though -- and it's really interesting just to look out the windows. There were some really nice shops and restaurants, a very nice, alive -- ALIVE! -- part of town, and not the edge of nowhere at all.
Then various scenes; I don't know if they're in this other York or not, but I find myself in a world that I've been a part of for a long time already. Matty H. is talking to Raymi on the internet, and she's actually talking with him, too. It's far more mundane than her blog, though -- is that good or bad?
Walking along an east-west thoroughfare, it's dusk-turning-to-night. Now we're all gathered by some strange outdoor machinery apparatus, all high-tech but with an air of Rube Goldberg whimsy. Coach is talking about this guy, Mexican (I think), "Bambino" -- I only know him by reputation -- not sure if he's dead or just gone away, but Coach sure misses him. Apparently, he was one-of-a-kind.
I suppose we all are, just not the kind that matter to the Coaches of the world.