I can’t take control of myself. I can’t send the signals; I’m a disconnected mind. My body is no longer mine. It’s no longer flesh.
It’s a shapeless, viscid blob of protoplasm. It wants nothing more than to sleep for nine hours every night, then wake up and spend fifteen more on the Internet.
It won’t pour itself into a form that’s useful. I can’t make it do that. It doesn’t want to study.
Look, I tell it. I get where you’re coming from. It’s not like I want to study either. But we have to do it. We’ve got no choice. Pick up a pencil. Can you do that? Just pick up a fucking pencil?
. . . Can you hear me?
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