There's a wad of clay on the table.

It stands and regards itself with dispassion, and a darkened eye, calm and scathing in it's obedience towards life and it's well know borders, and it rests by itself, questioning nowhere beyond it's little realm of object hood, a scintillating dismay apparent in it's ridges.

A girl sits beside it, lost in some excuse for thought, thinking about boy bands and hair dye and what her friends think of her and what the boys think of her, her elbow propped up nearby the clay but a little away from it, away just enough so that her elbow does not come near enough to stick into the clay-grease left from some other project hours since. The clay remains still and does not regard her.

There is loss somewhere within it, but you can not see it and you will not learn to see it and you do not care to see it, because the wishes and dreams of clay are unknown and alien t you. The mound of scattered and color flecked and hinted green and blue and yellow and dark black speck covered clay lives and lies and does not breathe within a cold and almost plastic barrier-it cannot spread out, and it refuses to spread out, and it is screaming and entreating that it's alignment is towards preferring to remain, still and bright and bulbous in it's still place, the fingerprints of twenty five anxious school children pressed firmly inwards into it's holy ridges and creases, while it itself lays calm and vaguely scathing on it's pliable and ancient sides. The slight indention of clay grease rests still on the table, , and it gleams off the thick dead oak wood and throws light off the wolf fang colored light bulb that hums and whirs calmly, above the authentic, and doubtless bought for a handsome sum of work and sweat and diplomas' teak wood desk- the school is one of money, and large garages with expensive yellow bicycles within and the hundreds of vapid CD's of boy bands on the handsome pink shelves, , the glittering compact discs resting calmly and not sliding much in the sweating fingers of a hair dyed and made up and nobly adult girl, her eyes half dead and wandering and a little brown and a little yellow, her mind a lukewarm expression that refuses to swim or breathe, of a scholastic life that she has led and breathed and loved, and she has figured it all will lead to better and more glamorously significant things in time. Maybe a job at Microsoft. Sales manager. Do daddy proud.

The breath of the starting up air condinter swirls mindfully over the classroom table, washing over the girl and opening her eyes a little then closing them again, glacial, bringing upon teak shelves images and majestic picture books of ice blue icebergs, where shoals of penguins lie in wait and bathe themselves in a living artic sun, the gleam of fish scent and oils of whale and well earned skulls of fish, lying in circles about their feet, where they laze and mend their way toward dying, in the marron and blue sunsets, that fade to deep brown when the sun drops below the mountain fifteen miles to the west. They have memories of fish and leopard seals, and the occasional joyless screams of a thousand college educated professionals from the cruise ship moored aside the glacier, trapped for eternity within their brains, and they lie and hum the tunes of the music played on board the ship ,within their toungeless ink sharpened beaks, moving blackish eyes in hardened rolling, moving along side. The polychrome music of the calm people onboard the ship rolls along the glaciers and into the not there ears of the leopard seal and the bleeding and dying gut of a ripped open red tinged white artic fox, the up and down music of the enlightened and romantic and quinisenttail tribe of men and women, that dance at the appointed time and read the Great Books with un-glittering eyes and flirt exceedingly carefully with men and women of the proper sort and puke their caviar weakened guts over the brushed steel sides, and then the students all sit back on mushy and cheap chair bruised haunches and watch the residue float downwards and squarely into the jaundiced eye of an Endangered Killer Whale, which they've really been wanting to save for ever so long, been giving money to all the right groups, Only responsible. College professors must be charitable.

The girl shifts a little in her cheap blue chair, and her hand brushes against the clay and shoves the mound over a little to the left, and she retains a sign of it's passing on her hand, a little spot of sticky and un-seemingly grease that glimmers off the lights and bounces off the windows and gravitates right back into her eyes, though she does not know it. She looks at her hand and she sighs slowly, and her eyes and her face suddenly become older then they really should be and her hand looks tired and weakened and her face loses it's youngness and comes on to all edges, and she looks this way for a short moment, and something inside of her holds it's breath for a long moment and releases.

She slides her starved skinny ass off the chair and hobbles off to the restroom to wash her hand, and her shoes make a tapping brushing sound against the tile, and the shoes drag a bit of her luxury home along with her, and the essence of money grinds into the tiles, the tiles receiving it and lying still as the clay. A door across the hall opens slightly, and she is gone,

A penguin hums an N*Sync tune to itself on the little frosted over island, and the others join in.