How to live for the moment and love life.

You must write the paragraph on housing tenure. A paragraph is a lovely, ambiguous term. Many writers use one-line paragraphs and you analysis them in English and say they are brilliant, dramatic and perfect. Your exercise book repels you though you know that it might be actually more interesting than staring at light emitting diodes clustered into thousands to create a laptop screen which you've forgotten already.

You are crumpled on the floor of your bedroom. Your head is directed at the laptop, eyes letting the artificial light soak in. Your limbs are unconnected from your brain, which is floating over the scene, looking down.

You know you are falling asleep before your eyes melt shut. You want to feel guilty, but now, there's a dazed layer around you that could be ripped apart if you forced yourself to move.. but you don't... and the liquid mist and sweltering heat closes around you. Tomorrow, you will have detention for the housing tenure paragraph; tomorrow, your bones will ache from sleeping on the floor- but there are infinitely many moments till tomorrow. Sleep slides over you then, quick.

Someone close to you has died. This, your dream self remembers, is sad. They are nameless and faceless, but you love them dearly. You cry in classes. Some people will look at you awkwardly, adopt hushed tones when around you, but your grief means you don't care. Others will apologise and you can scream at them. Perhaps this makes every hate solid, or perhaps you sail out of getting detention or being told by anyone, you're out of order. It will be tragic and bore a hole through your heart, but the advantage is everyone can see the hole in your heart and they respect it.

'Did you forget to set your alarm? Get up, quickly, it's late. Why are you sleeping on the floor, in a nest?'

You grunt. Everything come into focus, pixel by pixel. The maroon carpet. The laptop with a black screen. The ceiling, made of white chips in paper. Light wrenches your eyes open, and you see the curtains have been drawn. You get up, get dressed, clean your teeth though the toothbrush tastes like soap. You eat a bagel, then you have to clean your teeth again after eating.

The probability of you thinking of love, or friendship, or even heartbreak on your last thought is mathematically neglectable. There's a hope your death will be slow and you'll have time to force thoughts onto your first kiss or the wind in your hair, but after a while, your brain will unclench and you'll think sarcastically, 'hospital food is a total feast,' and that's when you'll die.