The words are a swarm of bees in the sultry heat of the afternoon. Their monotonous drone languidly fills the space. They are an irritation on the periphery of private worlds. The girls sit, inattentive and apathetic, consumed by the minutaie of their solar systems, of which they are the model sun.
Meanwhile the speaker in front continues his litany. He is a puppet of the system. To his audience he is as wooden and inanimate as the hard desks to which they are bound daily - inmates of their ignorance.
The ancient globe creaks on the rusty hinges of its axis, as it slowly turns its face away from the sun's penetrating stare. A bell cracks the soundproof glass and sound pours into the void.
It is Tuesday.
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