On a park bench overlooking the miserable injustice of childhood, the mathematician shared discourse with the psychologist. It was here that the mathematician was informed of the dreaded painfulness of boredom. The psychologist shared the learned information regarding how boredom was processed by the body as pain, yet the details of certainty were lacking. The mathematician attempted to convey how glorious the fruit of his labor would be, but ultimately found it wanting. Then in an attempt to justify his suffering, the mathematician put faith in mental projections of a future nonexistent, but ideal and teeming with hope:

If I can choke through this infantile banter, I hope to find myself in an intelligent space to plan my escape from this nonsensical train of thought.

The justification was unconvincing, yet silence reigned within the neighborhood of the park bench. An eternity drifted past and the mathematician raised his eye to the heavens; becoming conscious of his fleeting time, he recalled the collector of prepuces and laughed himself towards misery in consideration of Prufrock’s verse. Singing a sonnet still yet composed, babbling a limerick to a deafened stone, crying out to the fountain of youth’s commode.