Dear the three people who were whispering in the University of Birmingham’s library yesterday at around 11am,
Please, please, please shut up. I’m currently writing an essay on whether a random collective of people may be ascribed a moral status and it is taking every part of little brain’s energy to make this essay come around. Yet I can hear your whispering about nothing in particular and my head literally is near exploding from the sheer hell of the whole thing.
I’m working, you see, on a point which is particularly difficult and I’m not sure if it can be resolved. I’ve been wrestling these ideas for the period of about two days now and I feel like I’ve just nearly, nearly, nearly reached some type on understandable answer that I’m happy with. But if feels like I’m having to knock steel into shape and hearing your continued whispering in the background is steadily making me want to slowly die. I can hear you whispering and talking about your lives and I’m sure they’re mightly interesting and important in some way or other as you discuss the whys and the wherefores of the clubs that you have been to and the parties that you’re going to go for and the essay that’s due in two months from now that you need to work towards but the issue for me is that I need to squeeze these ideas out of my brain and you’re kind of making my brain feel as if wants to give up on the degree and set up shop as a keeper of bees or chickens or antelope.
The moment, actually, has now passed. You may be glad to know that I worked out my ideas, even without your help. Still, I feel you should know that you subjected me to something that might be described as terrible, inner pain.
The guy scowling at his laptop sitting at the next desk.