Every time those who call themselves my class are called to gather for an assembly, I wonder at the show they put on. What Shakespearean thespian could match the unfeigned horror, secretly sparking glee, of the high school drama experts when they deploy their craft and sail into such well plotted waters. Each must chortle over the tremulous doings of lesser beings. Wherefore does the green grass grow so brown beneath their feet? Why, they have been planted there too long, and have sucked the topics dry.
Throughout many a presentation, conversations have been known to fester, corrupting the fertile ground from which it came, and all that it can reach. Loftier conversations are to be found with the blossoming wind, or the cloud as it takes root in the sky and pushes out its glorious leaves with enough force to crack rock, and shatter bones. How do such seeds contain all of this power in such delicate, papery forms? Something which could be crumbled with no more than the twitch of a butte