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The Oxford Mall, home of so many high school memories to my generation, occasionally looks like a massive, wounded beast, lumbering back to the forest from whence it came to lie in torpor. Even as the University reclaims and rehabilitates the space to more productive use, one can almost smell the lingering corndog grease and fumes of new shoe smell lurking in the corners of the building, and sense the urgent pheremonal pangs of teenage lust and endless consumerist want that used to fill these halls. This used to be another home of sorts, perhaps chiefly for the lack of any better place. And we outgrew it, but its ghost still calls out. 
