Million thoughts are rambling on at the speed of an atom of Diaspora – [the world of Greg Egan] – in my mind.
My concentration feels prostituted, touched by every fleeting idea.
Why is it I cannot focus on the task at hand but make space for daydreaming?
I feel my brain cells coloured with ridiculous premises that the heart dares to send.
How could my heart betray me?
She is selling my emotions to my source of reason, eager for the taste of a thrill.
A cheap thrill!
Nothing makes sense any more; everything is in code, translated through numbers.
Is it on purpose? I do not usually speak numbers; my thought process shuts down at the sight of numbers.
I hear my brain cells screaming out in anguish, a sound that only similar minds can hear and understand.
This is the sort of thing that psychologists live for.
I can hear them giggling in anticipation, eager for a talk with my wondering intellect.
I feel their gripping hands feeling my opinions, poking and testing their theories in earnest.
Ah, they are concentrating on the task with such earnest that I chuckle in wonder.
I want to shake that feeling off.
That feeling of nothingness and mind wandering do not want to leave.
They want to build houses in my main cells.
Could you believe that they are so comfortable, that their house guests show up?
It is pathetic; wait a minute does that mean that I am pathetic?