We orchestrate another set of pedagogies. The seats are taken, warmed by bodies that wish to be anywhere but the classroom. One glances over the window, watching a coed walking along the waxed halls of Phelan.
Prelims are done save for a few who either felt inadequate to take the test or woke up a little too late. My red ballpen once again runs out of ink. It has done well. Salud.
“There are always those who ask, what is it all about? For those who need to ask, for those who need points sharply made, who need to know ‘where it’s at,’ this: ‘The mass of men serve the state thus, not as men mainly, but as machines, with their bodies.'”
[Harlan Ellison, “Repent, Harlequin!” Said the Ticktockman]