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My eyes slowly blacken as I try to close them.
My spit dribbles on my desk.
“Don’t fall asleep,” I mutter to myself.

The “teacher” glares at me as my head lands on the desk.
“Young man,” he barks, “pay attention in class!”

“Zane, not young man,” I say to myself.


The teacher hands out the capture sheets,
every paper murdering trees and our brains.

He sits down at the computer.
The little demon in my head whispers,
“hey dude, time for some shuteye.”

The angel in my head punches the demon square in the gut,
“Zane,” he tells me, “I know you might find Mr. Smith, dull, but
you got to take this class.”

“I know,” I groan, “i’ll try to stay awake.”





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