Waiting. Just waiting, in wet heat. A little more whiskey please. Turn the fan up. The amenities. No food yet, thank you. I’ll feel better later. It’s too hot to read. I think: do I have everything I need, stomach & mouth? A little more whiskey, please. In this terrible state I hope I’m paying for my sins at any rate. There must be some point to it. It’s very hard to think with the fan so high but I seem to remember times when Henry was happy without particularly deserving it. They say the temperature will drop with dark and after all my lecture rooms are air-conditioned. It’s that the actual brain won’t work before or afterward, so that everything has to be done there. I must be paying for some very special sin this summer. A little more shiskey. 
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence