Bradley looked at the monitor and perused what he had just finished writing. Dissatisfied, he leapt out of his chair, and began, quite uncharacteristically, into a completely spontaneous monologue:.
"Why is it that I can't seem to get ahead any more? I mean, in high school, it was all I could do to keep from being totally bored, and now." Bradley stared at the almost perpetual list of numbers printed on the scattered pages of data strewn throughout his room. "Now I can't get caught up without getting buried in work the very same day! This is insane.".
With that, Bradley headed for the bathroom. He leaned hopelessly against the counter, and drew some cold water for his face. He reached into the medicine cabinet, withdrew a pill from his medicine bottle, and swallowed it. After a few seconds, he was calm. He then washed his face in the refreshing, spring-like water, and returned to his bedroom. With his head down and eyes closed (by this time, he could map out the entire apartment without looking) he mumbled, "I wish sometimes that I could just slow everything down.".
Bradley strolled through the open door to his room and noticed that his legs were a little heavy. I must be getting tired, he thought. Bradley went to retake his seat in front of the computer, and after quickly rereading what he had already set down, he began typing again. Only this time, he noticed that the keys were distinctly more difficult to press. Even his fingers, which had once been light as feathers, felt somewhat weighed down. Convinced that he was growing increasingly tired (and sluggish), he decided to get some sleep.
Bradley didn't bother to prepare in the usual manner for bed, but, instead crawled into his comfortable, soft bed, removed his glasses and reached over to his night table. He removed his watch, and placed it next to him. "I'd better check the time and set an alarm, I don't want to knock myself out for ten or twelve hours.