Eyes water, straining to see. Long days melt, grow to industrious evenings, which only evolve, shaping themselves as late nights without slumber.
Wonder if the intention shall be realized. Food gives required fuel, but results in an ache, buring in the gut. Fearing an abyss of a rut, encouraged by a mere kiss without gratifiying smut.
"Worth it?" the tired mind's wonder. "Success shall be like found treasure to plunder. But to fail..." In dark recessses the tired mind wails.
The evaluation looms near, smiling through despair built upon fear, time brings you there.
Tired eyes stare, assessed mind hopes not to care. And the battle won, in retrospect still not fun. The elation of celebration explodes, stress erodes. Alone responsibile, alone successful, credit because it's due.
Our murder is proud of our hero, you.
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