It's a slow, cold morning, and I ooze out of the covers after hours of telling myself it's time to go. In another context, the word makes me think of acid, the times I've checked the potency of the stop bath by foolishly sticking my face into the barrel and feeling how much the fumes irritate my eyes. But it's also a slow-moving mass, always rolling in the direction of the next largest force despite all attempts to resist it.

It's a week of watching my nightmare situations shift to reality, seeing the failure modes I've only hoped wouldn't happen happen, and losing track of the days.

It's only February.

12 February 2014 17:13

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