Postkort fra 2037: What the Ceiling Thinks of Me
Chidi,
Okay so. They put the little grey pucks in our classroom over the summer. Attention-sensing. They sit up there in the ceiling like tiny disappointed uncles and they score how engaged you are, and the score goes in a folder somewhere, and nobody will tell us who reads the folder.
Everyone was chill about it. I was not chill about it.
So Sofia and I started bringing paper. Actual paper notebooks, from the loppemarked on Nordre Frihavnsgade, 15 kroner for a stack. You cannot score paper. The puck goes amber because I am looking down instead of at the board, and I take the amber, honestly, gladly. Nine of us now. Mr. Brix pretends he has not noticed and I love him for it.
It rained all day here, that flat Østerbro rain that makes the whole city look like a photocopy. I walked home without a hood on purpose.
People keep saying we are the generation that grew up measured. Fine. Nobody said we had to agree to it.
Write back. On paper, if you can find it.
Mille
(the ceiling says I am 61% present. the ceiling can fight me.)
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