I remember that first taste of that first sweet college poetry class, how much I wanted to learn, how much I learned, how much I didn't learn. I remember that moment when I realized that drone is an onomatopoeia too, not a comforting blatting wah-wah-waaah of Sally Brown's first grade teacher, or the baritone perfumed bath of the religion teacher I hadn't yet had, but the droning in slow motion or a drone in slow motion, buzzing, humming, droning by in slow motion too slow for the doppler effect to dopple effectively. I remember that first smell of fear hanging in the air, sharing in that cabaret of pain, wearing hearts on ripped and bloodied sleeves, baring our souls to demons who ate them for snacks, understanding that the stacks of bodies and broken minds littering the halls were the real lessons, not the importance of breathing or knowing Linklater from Viewpoints from Organic Synergy from how to get up when a fat rock and a catwalk in slow motion pin you in slow motion to the north lawn in slow motion too slow for the doppler effect to dopple effectively.