BETA

In fear of spring semester

I am unprepared. Weeks of malaise have shriveled my sails and rooted me into the springs of my mattress. My legs have forgotten the weight of my body, and my mind kicks half-heartedly against the walls of my skull. Meals pass in languid blurs; minutes slither past with the scroll of my two fingers down the trackpad; midnight meets me on my aimless trudge. Midnight grips my wrists tight as I reach for some semblance of productivity. My midnight mind has something to say, but the murmurs sink deep beneath the pond in my backyard and I am loathe to follow into the murky chill. Indolence without interruption, inclination without interaction, indulgence without industry — my mind wilts and meanders down well-paved paths that go in circles

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