“smoke cigarettes–they’re bad for you!” says the professor, kicking over a trash can & scribbling something in a notebook. must still be pissed about that symphony he went to last week, you know, the one with the squeaky tenor solo in movement 2. just as soon he’ll get over it…well he better for the sake of art and all expressiveness left (it’s running dry quick). his booze breath lands on the poor freshman’s nose when he whispers “don’t be careful what you wish for–just don’t wish, clear?”

he’s alright, i mean to say he’s not the devil, it’s just he could see the world in the eyes of a dumb kid once in a while too. walking fast down the stairs, turning the corner and rushing out the front door of the building he hears music and stops. schubert in a minor, his favorite…as he walks away he floats in the security of his own intellectual thoughts and starts crying. “i remember that one time when people weren’t so damn curious, and whatever happened to richard feynman anyways?”

the professor walks home early cuz he works too hard and he’s planning to go on strike soon he leaves behind a manila folder. two snotty-nosed kids run up to the bench that the folder was left on and fight over the papers inside, ripping them eventually. “i’m a scholar and a professional, you better respect me” reads a shred of the paper, now floating away in a strong gust of wind. the sun is setting yet nobody seems to notice…the leaves are changing but heavy feet only crush them in the bustle of learning.