Thoughtless.

I can't feel anything. I always talk about how I must do something. And so I have. Perhaps in excess, but it's all things I love. It mustn't be a burden. It isn't, but it's turning into work. Words I pursued with feeling, never forceful, have turned into a chore—a chase for perfection.

Drown yourself in work. If only the hours and hands we had could increase. I don't know if I hate this work, though. I don't have to think of anything else. I have to think of everything but what I avoid. It feels as though I am in a simulation, controlling these hands of mine. Forward, I press. Don't shout, I remind myself. Break the cycle, break the cycle, I input into my body.

It's a pattern, a system, a program I've tried to get this character to follow, but I feel something, sometimes. It's great—I know it is. But that's when control collapses, when no matter how many buttons I press, nothing works, and I have to think of sitting with it. Of being with what has been avoided.

And in that moment, work seems to cease for the mind. Almost like your character influences the way you work. Almost as if being human has an impact. Your body reminds you of its limits. Yet we push, we persist. It's beautiful to see the result of the art created.

You come back home and use sandpaper to smooth your calloused feet and hands. The brown semicircles under your eyes. The skeleton of a being you used to be.

It's all for a cause. You aren't a cog in the system. The system helps. The system makes you not think.

I can't think anymore.