Dr. Farnsworth is your college professor. He is a professor students are neutral about. They do not think much of him, only someone they see once or twice a day, someone from whom they retrieve information.

But you always thought differently. On the very first day, he had given you all a questionnaire to answer, and as he was gliding through the gaps between the rows of seats in the grand lecture hall, the most serrated part of his fountain pen had touched your forearm, and where the nick had unravelled, weird, bubbling images spawned.

The next few months, in intervals, he would look at you and in the seconds after you'd blink and be transported to a world with thundering clouds and frantic lights. In these images, a silhouette was approaching, becoming clearer and clearer. But you could never figure out who it was, only that Dr. Fransworth was playing tricks on you, like you were his puppet.

Today, he's looking at you more often than usual. And it's deeper but more clandestine, like his enrapturement with you has become even more convoluted.

You lock eyes with him and blink and this time, the image is different: a plate of cracking porcelein and on it, written, meet me after class.

You open your eyes and return to reality with a gasp. He looks at you and smirks as the loud buzz in your head fades back into the monochrome colors of the lecture.