Confessions of a (chronically ill) graduate student

It’s finals week. The library has gone feral.

It smells of coffee, old books, and fear. Packs of freshmen, unprepared for this desperate season, roam with glazed eyes searching for the shelter of a study room. Others sleep in the open. No one crosses the lone wolves, who without a pack must fiercely protect their resources. Either they’ve cut themselves free because they’re so much better, or they’re so much worse the group abandoned them. It’s too risky to find out. Graduate students circle the microfilm machines protectively.

Beware, all you who dare to enter. It’s finals week.

 

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