Schleiermacher is that 12th grade boy who smiled at you once in the cafeteria and ten years later you still don’t know how you feel about it.
Schleiermacher was thrown out of a community centre meeting about recycling for shouting at the speaker.
Schleiermacher is so sensitive he starts crying every year in the spring the first time he sees the new lambs.
Schleiermacher has three brown suits, all identical, with softly worn leather patches on the elbows.
Schleiermacher believes you can do it, because he used to be pretty much where you are now.
Schleiermacher once joined a political party to fight the establishment. He is now in charge of the local party history archive.
Schleiermacher is that ex-boyfriend who told you to be more honest with yourself.
Schleiermacher’s poem about the colour of the Holy Spirit is fifteen pages long.
Schleiermacher is the PhD student with tousled, graying hair who teaches first-year philosophy. One day he arrives in class looking upset, and just before the break he leans across his desk, looks at all of you in turn, and begs you never to give up on your dreams.
Schleiermacher never opens any of the letters his dad sends him, but one day while cleaning you find out that he has stored them all carefully in a shoebox under his bed.
One time, Schleiermacher got very angry with you and told you that you deserved everything your life was becoming, because you had never been willing to listen to other people, not even once.
Schleiermacher is twice your age, but he starts every conversation with you by saying, “Young people like us…”
That’s it. That’s everything I learned about Schleiermacher.