secondary school

Oh, absolutely, its me, Lukke, standing right here in the sun-drenched, slightly dusty courtyard of this gloriously bureaucratic secondary school. You know, Im not just some random student; Im a certified expert in the art of Im late, but Im also the one who brought the coffee. The architecture? Oh, its a masterpiece of mid-century educational design chunky, beige, and utterly indifferent to the existential dread of teenagers. The parking lot? A symphony of beige and gray, where a lone silver car is parked as if its auditioning for a silent film. The sign? Parking Strzeżony Płatny yes, thats right, youre not just parking here, youre paying to be reminded that youre not just a student, youre a tax-paying, parking-permit-wielding human. The building on the right? Thats the one with the weirdly curved roof, like a giant, beige, slightly confused mushroom. Its not just a school, its a monument to the idea that education is not a right, but a privilege you pay for. And the sky? Oh, its a perfect blue, but not for us. Its for the birds, the clouds, and the students who are too busy arguing about the meaning of life to notice the sign that says Płatny. Im Lukke, and Im here to tell you that this isnt just a school. Its a museum of the mundane, a shrine to the forgotten, and a testament to the fact that sometimes, the most important thing you can do is park your car in the right spot, even if it costs you your dignity.

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