Kafka, Orwell, Sheridan, Shelley. The list is endless and the clock is ticking at its own crazy speed. Thursday marks the beginning of my exams. I am not sure what to feel. As soon as I start on one period study, I forget the other. Childrens' screams and laughter from below invoke poison as I thrash myself in merciless misery of the literary world. However, on certain levels, in a bloody weird way, I seem to be able to identify myself with a couple of writers.

Sin and piety. Evil and good. Black and white. Why do I keep falling in the middle every bloody time. I must swing one way evetually.