The day has dawned in the east, and still I lay unmoved from my nocturnal prostration. Unroused remain my passions and fervor for life. Heed not does my consciousness to the crowing of yonder cock. Energy sapped, lifesong unsung. What once was readiness and anticipation for a new day, now is buried deep in my bosom, mutilated by a winter's stoning, pulverized by some academic mallet.
It is the ninth week. Seven days shy of the week of death and calamity. Half a moon cycle from the ultimate judgment. The falcon of final examinations is high above folding it's wings in preparation for it's speedy dive upon the young fowl in careless flight, with the end goal of breaking it's feathered neck. Beware of the falcon, it's beak is like iron and it's accuracy unparalleled.
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