After hours of bending over the table, starring at the screen, the green prompt continued to demand immediate input. My fingers slowed to a stop, unable to make a decision on their own, and my mind blanked.

I stared down at my hands on the keyboard.

Have my fingers ever made a decision on their own? I thought of "Mad Love" with Peter Lorre. Now there were some fingers that acted of their own free will. I raised my hands and inspected my wrists as if expecting to find tell-tale signs of surgery. There was none.

"Mr. Twombley?"

I pretended not to hear the soft spoken voice coming from the overhead speaker. Could I be as mad as Doctor Gogol in "Mad Love"? Or was I more like one of Doctor Gogol's victims of jealousy?

"Mr. Towmbley. You've stopped typing. You know the rules."

I looked up at where the inanimate voice was coming from -- the only voice they allowed me to hear.

"You seem tense. Do you need five minutes of porno?"

"Ahh shut up!" I said to myself, trying to calm the voices in my head. I got up, crossed the room and opened the window. Taking a deep breath, the cold air felt chilly on my skin and crisp in my lungs. It was stuffed with the scent of snow. I exhaled, leaving a visible condensed pathway in the air, and decided that it was time to leave. The screensaver already played with the boundaries of the monitor. I ignored it, grabbed my keys, my jacket and was out. Although I've felt the cold air at the window I was overwhelmed by the cold for a second when I stood on the sidewalk.