They go by quick. You start out feeling like you have TOO much time. Like it's going to kill you. Hunt you down. Taunt your boredom, poking you and prodding you while you cross off numbers on a sheet. Then it's like they're slipping away from you. Like you don't have enough time. Then it becomes a death sentence. Either way, it kills you. I've only been home for a week, and I already definitely have a job. I've already came close to screwing my engagement up. Twice. I've stood on the brink of my past as I stood across the street, and she wondered just what the fuck I was doing there, and why I even remembered who she was, or what she meant to me. I've been walk around aimlessly, feeling so tired, so drained, yet I lug around this vat of energy that's welled inside of me, storage from the inanity of staying stashed at a desk or table. I've already got my grades. 2.58. PHY 200: A. Optics: C. Lab: B. Nature of Story: B+. Educational Psychology: C- cause I just stopped giving a shit. And I'm already seeing it all in black and white, in blurs, in streaks. I'm already blind to the speed.