Izak picked up his plastic mechanical pencil, an act he hoped would stir him to greater things than picking up pencils. A twirl or five later, he had accomplished nothing of worldly importance. He could feel his very resolve to do something, anything, slowly diminish as his pencil dropped onto his desk, its untouched lead a modern reminder of futility. And then it hit him. He jerked upwards immediately. He had dozed off and slammed his head on his desk. Not even sleep was an option to cure his inactivity. He rubbed his aching head, and resolved to do, nothing.