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Upon this paper lies an exact reflection of me. But mostly, I am made up of one letter, scribbled in red Biro, aching for better from this tired writer. Read my paragraph fingerprints on this mirrored page, statistics littered along my knuckles. Tell me what I am and I'll refuse, erupt into syllables, cry a little – but I cannot be more than this. There is nothing here that is not my soul, academically weighed, sent off to pass or fail, good or bad. Scales of an autocratic curriculum tip me into disarray, and I flail like a new-born finch in flight from a nest of golden sentences. Surely, I have to be more than this.