I'm hosed. There's nothing more to give. I have poured my life into it, taken my soul and set it aside so I could concentrate. I have laid aside or given away everything, notwithstanding what I have given to it, what I have put into it, what I have slowly, methodically, seeped through, wringing the drops forth, out, in, down, into void. There is nothing left. Yet somehow I must have something tomorrow.
Someone too is looking at me, laughing at me.
(note from Sept 2003: this is referring to a paper I was working on for Dr. Harman's class about Portrait of The Artist as a Young Man and aesthetic theory. It was a really really tough project, too much for me. I threw myself into it, wasted an entire swath of time --including a perfectly good Thanksgiving-- locked up in my room working on the paper)