The cold hum of the vents breathing the air conditioned breeze through out the abnormally still classroom is the only noise that interrupts the deafening silence. It catches my attention, not as a distraction, but as the focal point of my usually productive mind. It holds me there, as the complete inaction of the room becomes the backdrop to the serene murmur. I feel unconscious, struggling to awake myself from nothingness. The vent is a beacon of hope.
             An absolute feeling of tunnel vision envelops my mind, in a shroud of incapability. All I can see is the sterile floor; the off white panels of cinder blocks that comprise the wall are hypnotizing. The desktops mind-numbing dull color, a pale lifeless white, triggers a R.E.M. state as I sit here still. As I sit here still, the only movement is the slight fluctuation of the solemn zephyr. My brain feels abandoned, lonesome; this room is so cold and distant. The vent is my only companion, my escape.
             The students accumulate, proceeding to their individual corners, their silent protests still unheard. The seats scrape across the barren floor, and heavy thuds give notice to the load that is concealed in their backpacks. And still I'm consumed by the whisper of the exhaust. Everyone is building partitions around themselves, with arms and books, hoping to procure some sense of personal space. I assume good fences make good neighbors, but for all purposes, the vents keep me sane.
             My teacher starts her lecture. The class hangs on her every word. All boundaries are maintained, and still the vent contains me in her song. I struggle to break free from its grasp, but her serenade has become as enticing as the Harpies. I finally break free of its enchantment, just in time to catch Mrs. Delos Santos? attempt at levity, it falls on apathetic ears. The class's drab response seems sufficient enough for her. The beauty that sits in front of me slightly adjusts her shoulder length ...