March 13, 2014

Like a crazed slinky, Time is pitching forward and surging back. Just eight days now, for my last paper, but eight long, long days until my birthday. Based on the perspective you adopt, Time is either flying away, faster than the speed of thought, or crawling along, inching slowly, so slowly, at the pace of the dust that gathers in an old, abandoned house.

Father Time has either lost his mind, or is doing drugs.

Every morning, though, the calendar tells me that the Earth is rotating just as it is supposed to, that the Universe is alright, and that today is a brand new day to be productive.

However, that is not reassuring, because it means it must be me - I must have lost my mind, and during my Boards at that.

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