and you think in the hallway:

things you think while you're stumbling through school.

Writing writing writing. Always writing. My head is muted, like a bell wrapped in cotton. Sordid faces pushing all around me: waxy white hands clenching, unclenching. Too much is people and not enough is me. I. The name on my papers. Does it matter? Does it even matter? We have babies and breathe deeply and cling tightly to the ground but I just can't find out where it's all going. I don't care for the future of my race. I don't care for the continuation of my line. Genetics mean nothing more to me than the tangle of wires and nerves in my head. Grey matter. Squish. Old memories. Squish. Reasoning. Squish.

Squish squish squish squish squish.

There must be something wrong with me but I can't dig deep enough in my own skin to find out what it is.

The End

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