The final stretch.


I tell myself that I must study, but the effort is laughable when I barely accomplish my readings and spend too much time online instead. My hours are consumed by the need to sleep, but even in rest a little minder sits at the back of my mind screaming out how little time I have got left.


I look up at the skies, at the thick dark clouds that hug closely to the tops of the buildings. The wind whips around me like a sword unsheathed, and I wonder why it doesn't pour. The constipated skies mirror a clogging in the head, and as it finally rains I murmur a prayer and realise that it is a mere drizzle that can fill a teapot. I retaliate by sticking a finger skywards (insert swear-word here), and sit down at the computer again, the notes left untouched.