Metacalculation; Or: Why he prefers semicolons

He is late, he has had to fix his bike on the way, but all the heaven and men and devils won't bring him to a full stop, let alone his own ride;

His fingers are black with grease, but he doesn’t care, he runs into the hall instead, storms down the steps, wearing pink pants and a purple jacket, and throws his backpack on the podium;

"Qooestions, people?" he yells, as microphones are only for the short of breath, and pauses for a few seconds, but he is disappointed again, "No qooestions, people? How boring!";

His restless glance bounces off unresponsive pupils, all staring away into passivity and lacking in energy;

"Come on, people," he continues, "I have a special present for you if you parpici - participate in class discussions, it’s a book!";

He plays with a pointless electrical switch on the wall, but the class is still submerged in a tank of silence, with muffled voices murmuring in each corner, and he must go on - no one is interested in books anyway;

He walks up to the blackboard, where a layer of white chalk precipitates on the black grease as he writes, "Announcements", the very same ones which he realizes he has forgotten, as formalities often slip his mind, and he thus adds, "find them online";

Then, just before starting the lesson, he hesitates for a second and thinks about the mass production of education that in a few years’ time might dull his little daughters’ happy curiosity to the same level as his students’;

But he then scratches his chin, looks at the half-empty class, and resumes his contribution to the process - people need to learn;