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March 26, 2012
Ray Bradbury's slim volume implores me to proceed with zest and gusto, yet here I sit, refreshing my email what seems to be every 30 seconds, tracking the status of a package that's days away from delivery, perusing endless Facebook photos of a friend's marginally attractive baby, all of this causing my heart rate to drop as dramatically as if I were lapsing into some sort of vegetative state where healthcare professionals could quite reasonably declare me brain-dead. Ray Bradbury urges me to write, and I want to pirouette across the page. So why can't I feel my fucking legs?