There's is a rusty orange clad brick building perched upon a mossy green hill everyday day we sit in the same seats and look out the same glass that locks us in and gaze down upon the hill hoping, searching for something more out of this life something that fits our desires, something we will never know. Because they say the more we are sedentary, the more our intelligence will grow. Surely they have it all figured out all wrong what they have created isΒ Β a cold hearted machine. A machine of memorization, A machine of 'the right way' the 'only way' of 'yes please's' and never of 'no's.' They say if one morning we decided to turn around and never look back we would drop dead. But what happens when my house forecloses, because no one taught me how to handle money? What happens when I turn to pills to keep me alive because no one told me the basic skills of survival? What happens when I am out on the street, frigid and alone, with a cardboard box and a bottle of liquor as my only two friends? Will algebra help me? What about Chemistry? Will those pain staking hours of note taking help me pick up the pieces of my life? No. Surely then I will be dead. Gone. Along with my intelligence and my creativity. Six feet under that mossy green hill.