Forever to a human being is still only temporary

Campus people:

The fake student.

Out of work and middle-aged, slinging a battered sack that only incidentally resembles a book bag. Not pursuing a course of study. He vacantly surveys the young women around him, sometimes following a short distance. A sullen enterpreneur embarking on a promising carreer of serial rape.

The cadet campus cop.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, sweat sliming his forehead, as if to reduce the friction between his face and the air around him. He tucks his rumpled uniform into the back of his pants and waggles his handgun in its holster as he swaggers unsteadily. His face is squashed from discomfort. Desperate and miserable, he declares "for the love of God" loudly as he passes.

The career grad student.

She looks like a convalescent patient enduring a treatment that is arguably rougher than the disease. Her clothes and hair are shapeless. Staring at books and printed pages for so long, her face has started to reflect back the same bleached texture. As she lurches by, she visibly struggles against the tendency of her pupils to gravitate toward the tip of her nose. Her face is locked in a continual sour pucker from distasteful medicinal knowledge.
Problem: intellectual curiosity. Cure: higher education.

The administrative assistant.

Her stride is like that of a wingless heron advancing in the teeth of a gale. Everything about her denotes near-constant friction. Her hair is wrenched back into a bun which threatens to pull her entire face loose from its moorings. Her heels click on the pavement like the pounding approach of an enraged wildebeast on stilts. The intense tension of her facial muscles, combined with the tautness of her scalp open her eye sockets enough that one can peer beneath her eyeballs right into her brain. All one sees are the words "Out To Lunch".

The born-again sophomore.

Year two has been good to him. The softness with which he entered college has been elaborated upon by a steady diet of pizza and philosophy. With his un-self-conscious lope and his face hiding uncertainly beneath a curly brown goatee (his proud monument to indecision) he clearly resonates the message of some benevolent brain-damaged god. Sandled-and-stockinged feet carry him to class, where, like a fat white grub, he will wait to be plucked up by the invading ant species and sold happily into life-long insectile slavery.