Had a Thursday that felt very late in history, as if its lateness were not just a perspective trick but something inherent and steady. Over the the hills strands of white cloud and the daytime moon, an ice-drop of the same stuff. Thought about Shakespeare and the simple English noun. About being tired.
That was Thursday last week, after I had handed in the dissertation. It won’t let me go yet because I need to wrangle an eleventh-hour committee change, useless ceremony for my useless doctorate. It was a bad week for ten reasons; all I can say is that it’s over.
