One student lingered, slumping indolently against the lectern. His bearded physog resembled hairy roadkill, framed by an encrusted hoody. He smelt like fried bread.
“Yes?” I asked imperiously, not expecting a coherent response.
He peered through his hair.
“Professor, your search for meaning in an increasingly complex field is fraught with a tendency to idolize technology as your ultimate saviour, or apocalyptic Satan,” he said quietly. “Please choose.”
I had no coherent response.