I feel on fire, my brain incapable of quieting in the dark, my body exhausted.
I feel trapped, hurtling towards a middle, but at the same time in forced repose; nothing
more to prepare.
I feel relieved, dismayed I have wasted much vitamin B on stress.
I feel empty, critique is over, but I am inert, a body at rest. I should be busying.
I feel procrastinatory, reading with fervor in order to forget my upcoming-now-past
critique.
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