The fan whirs, the clock ticks, the air is still. Outside, the lamps illuminate a shade of dusty grey beneath their tall, bent heads. My windows are shut; the air is too unpleasant. It is unnaturally quiet in here – there are no shrills of crickets nor crackling of leaves to break the silence. The room feels soulless. The fan continues to whir and the clock tick. How carefree these machines are. Might we be better off as machines then? Consciousness creates such an anxiety in man; but for what he cannot describe. It is inexplicable.


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