The days, they pass so slowly. They tingle and twinge through the musty, academia-laden hallways. I breathe, somewhat innocuously, for the freshness amidst the stale. It penetrates and I am alive again. Time is transient. Surprise! And so, in this place, it has changed and I am no longer the “me” I was in that place and time before. Suckling at the swindled minutes, I never have enough. And so I persist, for it is all that one can do in this place. Any place, moreover. My life has become a stagnant standstill of motions. I organize them intricately, scheduling the play in my handy planner and praying for relief. But then, the quiet nights in bed, soaked in lavender scents and my wondering mind, brings relief. I tell myself stories – while I walk, while I study, while I commute – for I never seem to have time to read them anymore. They become more intricate as I grasp at the players that are my schoolmates. Some of my stories may actually come true. But then again, I have a wildly vivid imagination, so perhaps not. As I punctuate the minutes by staring at mundanely written words and flickering digital screens, the time whittles wittily away and suddenly, WHOOSH. It is gone.