Two masters of Groenbaille converse in the third story hallway in the college of Philosophy. The busts of dead sophists stud the columns, their faces hewn in polished mahogany.
Beneath them, where the bridge of Groenbaille crosses the river Balline, two students gawk at a tryst on the island bank below, casting pebbles at their unsuspecting targets lost in embrace. The lovers assume that the bridge is slowly crumbling into the river below, but are not scared.
In the Tour de Groenbaille, white stucco faced and proud, the clocks are adjusted and scrubbed and fixed, and the steps of a servant can be heard as he slowly ascends the tower steps to ring the dinner bell.
A fight is diffused in the mess hall. A ballgame ends on the green. Groenbaille repeats itself again today. Its perennial masters repeat their lessons for the passing through, who repeat themselves, as each new face is similar to, or a composite of, an older one.