The hypnotizing whir of the ceiling fan.

The silent ticking of the second hand of

the round wall clock.

Shuffling steps of eager proctors.

"Why do I have to stay here?"

runs through the minds of everyone present.

12: 50 and we can leave.

Just sit here thinking until that time.

Another pen drops to the floor,

and another sweaty someone reaches

down to pick it up.

My feet dance to the rhythm of the last

song I heard this morning.

To my right someone is sleeping.

To my left someone is dreaming.

Up ahead someone is tapping their white pencil

on the fake wood grain desk.

a strange kind of silence.

a weird kind of presence.

as I listen to the

hypnotizing whir of the ceiling fan.