It’s been three months already, and I’m back to the grind. Nothing has changed. The struggle is familiar. The labor is still sweet. The hours are still piling up around me even as they are running away, leaving me with the queasy feeling that I’ll never catch up with them. As usual, the semester is starting with a bang of books to read, ideas to dream up, and virgin sheets of paper to defile with doodles and ink blots. But I’m already behind. I’ve run out of time. Or is it time that has run out on me, abandoning me to inertia and and to decay? Don’t waste your pity on me. I’m being a sad, sour academic. Feeling behind is the key to any life sworn to books, the making of which there is no end.
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