As time passed, as the pages of her book progressively numbered less and less, people began to note her head sagging closer and closer to the desk. More than one of her teachers had commented in passing "Your neck is a valuable pedestal, my dear, and was designed to hold up your head better than any charitable hand."
Alas she never did heed their advice, so it was no surprise to anyone when the fire alarm went off one day and she jerked her head off the table so fast that it snapped clear off her neck and rolled across the library floor.
Had she been motivated enough to glance in the mirror once in a while she might have noticed the flesh of her neck becoming as puckered and withered like as an elongated currant and her vertebrae becoming so brittle that it could not have supported a bar of soap.
Yet the tale of Mirawa, tragic as it may be, did not end there. It just so happened that there was a reknowned surgeon studying limb transplants not far from Mirawa's head and with a deft hand, combined with a guiding moment of inspiration, he reattached it to its body.
Now Mirawa rised each morning, stretches to tough the ceiling, taking care not to disturb the three rulers pinning neck to head and selects carefully her outfit for the day. "Use it or lose it," I believe her mantra goes and at every child she sees who supports their head in their palms, she stops and tuts in disapproval. She would shake her head but alas, the surgeon did so thorough a job that it moves neither left nor right.