What shall I say that I am overcome by, at times, hours when something it seems seizes me, and I am rendered immobile? For it seems like a force that I cannot win against, for it is as if my will itself is pre-empted. So many useful things that I may do, so many fruitful ventures that are before me, roads that I may travel, things to read, devices to concoct — and I will have none of them. I sit and do nothing, instead, for this gray thing has possessed me, and I cannot say it is some demonic essence, for it is quite more familiar than something so evil. I have a feeling it is from inside mine own self, which once I called friend, or some sort of pet, which I raised from its merest inkling, some time ago. Is this Sloth? Because if it is, I knew not it could be something like an entity, that overrides in something like an active sense. But I should not care so much for names: I have met you before, and I have shaken you free from me more than once. You shall not have final say upon my fate.
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