Every Friday morning, you wake up, softly scramble your eggs, and settle down on the sofa with a freshly minted edition of the 39th volume of the College Hill Independent. You have come to rely on its steady presence; you cherish the silky grain of its centerfold. It is your companion.
But the days are getting shorter, the nights colder, and you sense that something’s off. The Indy might not be what you thought it was—or, at any rate, it’s changing fast.
Nothing gold, honey, can stay. It has been our privilege to be your puppeteers this volume. We pass along the strings to SAM.