crowings

157 hours to deadline. A crawling sense to doom is unhinging at the depths of my consciousness. I wade waist deep through a sea of discarded coffee cups, processed food wrappers and the scattered fragments of once proud scientific literature. I must keep racing blisteringly towards that faint hope that is yet only a pinprick on the dark horizon.

Prolly I should try to sleep a bit too.

And two hours for this. Shiver me timbers!