A young, fresh and cherry STEM student walks into the halls of a sterile English department with his head held high. Stern and with a proud heave, he bellows through the cavern at the beanie-sporters scattered through the hall:
"WHAT WOULD YOU RATHER STUDY, HEATHENS?"
Seven fragrant dreadlocked beards spew coffee from their continental gullets. Free-range hens shuffle out a window somewhere.
"WORDS ON A PAGE OR THE FUCKING COSMOS?"
An emergency evacuation is called. Afghan clogs stuff the exit. Native tears are shed. A triad of cauldrons full to brim with boiling kamquat loose their bellies with a fever on the frantic patrons all around. The shelves are raided. Looters stuffing oriental knapsacks leave no kitsch untouched.
From the roaring depths of chaos in the halls, through sheets of stirring fire: calm and rigid comes up looming in the haze a stoic English professor, tailored suit to keen perfection, forty thousand pages full of Marx and further reading in an unstained palm.
Expressionless, with firm phenomenologic hold on mind and body, he whispers to the STEM student, currently engaged in evil laughter:
"What would you rather study, child?"
The student was hushed. Voiceless. The man has snared his subjectivity entirely.
"Nature - or the nature of nature?"
Of an instant all the place is silent. In the corner, captive underneath the groins of several existential theists, one brave soul begins to clap. Soon the place is flooded with cheer.
The next day, all sciences were cancelled nationwide. The shells of disenfranchised rockets sheltered lonely bohemians everywhere. All was well.