The power outlets line the walls of one of the old brick frat houses on Rugby road. Twin big eyes and an open mouth, they face the same direction, but stand far apart. They are waiting for the lava lamps. The stereo. The phone chargers. The cords. With their long, smooth, plastic covering that should just glide in. But they never do. Instead, they push, surging their energy inside. Fumbling in the dark. Bumbling their way in. Forcefully. Their power drowns out any voice that could be heard. Only an impression of what could have been said remains.