I can feel my blood rethickening. Airy fantasies from the previous night about who I am, what I'm capable of, are all clogging up and sinking back down to earth. I can see everything about the future – not only what I will do, but what what I do will cause. How everything will end up. The shivering consolidation of self, the sludging sanguine, it resembles a divinity in the style of Aristotle: an Unmovable Mover. But not how he meant it.

A mover, an agent of free will, reduced to sedentariness. A brain once raging against its bars has been fed, has been drugged, is calm and attempting to digest all it has taken in. Too much. And this catatonic body, softly moaning, covered in terry cloth or pajamas, wrapped up in a sleep suit well into the afternoon, houses an immense assemblage, it is a warehouse meticulously analysing, categorising, and labeling even the slightest traces of emotion and memory. And it has two swollen windows, the glass warping within its very frames, watching the sun sink down, watching a whole day slink away without any commendable or recognizable activity. To other people, the cars on the highway, this building does not move, hasn't changed, might as well be empty. And yet, the molecules that make up every brick in its walls sigh a bit, push away and relax, in the wake of the highway breeze.