An abandoned schoolhouse. Bricks made of eternal fire. Surrounded by sidewalks serene, though far too silent. Nearby elms watch in witness, impotent guardians, but lovely still. Upon entering the steel doors of time, I hear the echoes of children, long since gone. Their multitude of lessons – learned and unlearned – permeate empty halls. Behind each door, the discarded sanctuaries of teachers. What if our souls merged with theirs every time we read a book, or raised a question, or rose above our own foolishness? I stand now, at the front of a classroom. Millennia of educators course through my veins. A curriculum composed of eager minds, diverging lives, and dreams seeking flight. Every page the world turns is a conquering of death. Every time a poem is written, the reaper is put out to pasture. Those who choose to read tonight will surely live forever.