You rise from your seat, leaving the dreaded report to it’s fate next to the trash can. There were surely more important things to be done than obsessing over a ball that didn’t shoot cleanly through the hoop. Surely.
You pick an open space and line your trajectory up to the other side. Back and forth and back and forth, you pace. You pace and pace and pace. Thinking about the world, the Sun, the Moon, and all the things that shine down under them. You debate with yourself, questioning old concepts you once accepted as fact, recognizing the virtue of the opposition’s argument. Pacing wasn’t just a habit, it was a sport, and a sport you actually somehow managed to play quite well.
Your body is settled, but the gears in your mind still turn. Turn like the inner workings of a clockwork tower. Your eyes almost water up with how much they want to close, but sleep is not an option to you right now--not when you could be doing something productive instead.
A bookshelf just nearby seems the perfect place to start. On it, two books stick out in particular. “Literally Explosive Brews”, and “The Poison Compendium”. Lovely titles, those.
>Read “Literally Explosive Brews”.
>Read “The Poison Compendium”.