swingingsixties-superseventies
Jean Shrimpton by Terry O’Neill 1964
I digress. It's already Monday.
Only another month left to the year. Another two weeks left to finals and my departure. Why do I feel so sad?
I'm staring at a plan of the entire week's assignments laid out for me. I can't even think straight. I don't know where to start. Thinking of where to start itself is procrastinating progress. I hate this feeling. I really don't know how I'm going to survive this week. But I'll take one day at a time, because I can't cope with anything more.
Will it be safe to say I'm scared? Terrified? Of Friday. I long and dread it. I've been preparing two years for it, should everything work well; it'll mark the end of a bevvy of musical pleasure.
Anyway, back to more work, work and work. I should talk less too.
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