She’s the accumulated grind of three years of university, waiting in agony to start her long night in the studio. She can’t stand to write anymore; lost the patience to make subject and verb dance to the song of story.
She no longer can stomach a lecture,
“I have to eat something or chew on an erasure just to get through a class.”
She’s so far from the beginning (a private school in The Valley), yet so far from the end (a degree in urban design).
Soon she will paint civics, but tonight she has to sit through the prerequisites
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