This is the story

of the air in the brain and the strain in the eyes and the notes in the piles and the strings in the cups and the jobs on the lines and the pink in the cheeks and the checks in the mail and the glare on the screen and the forks on the floor and the pain in the back and the folders in the stack.

I love my deadlines so much I could pop them. I could pop them off and crush them between my floor boards and my bundles of socks. I could hang them on nails and speak to them in Scottish accents until they have seizures and die.

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