The pencil sits in front of him but he doesn’t write, not because he has no mind, but because he has no want. He has no drive. The calculator sits to the left of him but he wants right out of the chair and into his bed, into his head. Where dreams dash and twirl, and geometry is not yet pioneered. No maths, no sciences; Only museums, and cemeteries, and libraries. The Romantic poets await for him. He is drenched in Keats’ kisses. Lord Byron whispers to him the latest olde gossip, and Wordsworth hands him the daintiest daisy. Soon, his body is wrapped in the daisy chains. No calculations or periodic tables needed for sitting in nature. There is no need for theorems and postulates when counting stars, climbing trees, chasing bees. A quill sits in front of him and he writes the most beautiful sonnet.