"Curriculum auriculum," Annabelle spits, "I don't teach by PTA recipes! The learning is in it and of it and cannot be codified prior to the event!" I agree, but ever-bookish, suggest perhaps a text of my own, a grammar whose exercises were written to bind her to my heart: I am going to the library, you are going to the library, we are going to the library. The children, mostly made of clay, cannot follow my reasoning and instead train the class hamster (whose name is Virgil, with wife and children of his own, and dreams of a burrow in the field across the playground) for his impending departure to Heaven via the ingeniusness of the Transubstantiatory Rocketry Club. From Heaven, Virgil will report to the class on the nature and atmosphere of death, of what is to come once the day to day has wound to stillness and silence, and via the tiny transmitter I built with the help of a student whose school-name is Horizon the hamsternaut will answer the oracle's only question: is there hope? Annabelle realizes she will never truly be able to teach her students while bound to the dictates of idiots and fools, and so declares the classroom a country unto itself, forsaking the inverted crown of the degenerate public schooling system, and so Virgil's journey becomes a diplomatic mission, as the newly christened Zos Kia Kinderland must forge an alliance with the dead in order to protect true knowledge from a corrupt society, and I write at the back of the book I am going to Heaven, you are going to Heaven, we are going to Heaven.

the exit is hidden within the exit