The brain is like any other lump of inert matter in my body, it wears out. If I push it too far it reverts to a useless blob of goop, too amorphous for use as a paper weight and too lacking in utility for any other purpose.
And like those undead in films I continue my patterns all the same, though I'm lacking any ability to carry them out correctly. I sit attempting to write, attempting to sort my apartment out but really I'm just taking up space. My circuits are burnt up, my memory ejected through the nearest window by a paranoid data pirate.
I'll be back online, soon. Just soon enough to run the gauntlet again tomorrow morning and I find myself looking forward to that. In the meantime all I can do is write nonsense, send emails and wonder why nothing quite makes sense to me right now.