Three hours past my bedtime, I am cooped up in my corner, books spread out haplessly before me, papers piled atop one another - coffee stains lining their edges.
Michael Buble, Avenged Sevenfold and Mando Diao drain their passion into my ears as I test the agility of my mind to sustain my attention on both cardiac escape and Gunslinger.
I bend over my papers, straining the dilator pupils of my eyes, my retinas unsatiated due to the insufficient amount of light at this time of the night.
@johncmayer's tweets, popping up every 10 minutes on the upper right hand corner of my screen seem to be my only company for the night. It's fascinating how modern connectivity has the ability to make even the farthest of strangers seem like one's best friends.
The roomate is already frolicking in her own dreamland, I am left alone to tend to the regulation of the cardiac activity as thoughts of being pended the next day plague my sentiment. My jimny cricket crawls out and lights a fire beneath my heels. Almost immediately, all of my focus is funneled to the place where it righfully should be at.
Instinctive introspection surprisingly reveal that the sensation in control of my umbra at the moment is not that of fear or distress or despair.
Instead, I am satisfied. Content.