I'm a nearly beaten by school, mates. Every time I consider the next day I add class into the equation and wish I could run away. More often than not I find myself skipping it and then feeling like the libertine, like I've sniffed my own shroud. What future is there for a man whose degree entails being creative for a living? I suppose the world needs us as much as we want them to need us and I will write just so that she will never run out of things to read. But does that mean I have to stay?
More later, oh my brothers. I'll reserve this space again.
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