One soft afternoon of the April persuasion, the sun in all its flower reigning over the horizon, the asphalt palpitating sweetly with tender tar scent, a white and blue livery bus emblazoned with an enigmatic Y, halting by footwear for the most part toe-less, collects, from the curving curb, voyagers confined to light moisture and, as a porcine arm is raised vertically from a thick shoulder rouged by sun, a single sudoriferous globule, plump but lucid bead hanging from a single, sharp, black hair, falls, with a shout exhaled, drops, with what seems the weight of a bowling ball, onto the dark, hirsute inch of my broad big toe — the heat, shrouding the tall bulk, man the height of two men and the muscled width of three, has allowed the student body, insensible zeitgeist, to deem tolerable and what’s more permissible the undertaking and execution of an injurious motion on the sleeveless agenda.

Struck, battered, bruised, broken, reduced to a wounded mound, a feverish ant on searing-hot cement, the afternoon in fact not soft but hard, the sun’s lyrical reign tyrannical, the asphalt’s palpitation sweet-devoid, tears began, eye-sockets rumbling, volcanic, to sludge, as black magma from its lacerated source, down cheekbone, cheek, and jaw, arms, throbbing with muscles, laden with veins, bare, long, stretched towards me, and at their ends no sleeves but rather sharp, black hairs at whose ends shimmered, and shook, plump but lucid beads, slowly, with bowling ball weight, with three-toed sloth’s speedlessness, from a dozen cavernous axilla, down, onto my face, mouth open, expecting, as I had reason to expect, horror.

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The sun having already descended numerous degrees, processing gradually down the monumental staircase in its celestial parade, once again was a livery bus muttering, Y emblazoned, curving curb, my body completely covered and further reinforced by black umbrella, I perceived the person previously, primarily portrayed moving midst the elms of central campus sleevelessly still, accompanied by another ejusdem farinae who gave him, on that path patronized by the arm-stretched traffic that the flying disc necessitates, a compliment of an elegance, the sun above those limbs wilting, that went no further than the niceness of his guns.