Moments like this.

Sprawled out on an old wooden desk. Papers and books and arms caress names scratched in the surface. Illuminated briefly by the lamp in the window, dead vines blow into the sudden incomprehensible dark. Take a good look around you. I raise a heavy head to weary reflection in the glass. Hold your head up you silly girl. I'm so tired. I haven't slept a wink. Drinking an album, chewing on a pile of notes, I feel satiated by my company. John and Paul tell me we are meant to be together. Silly girl. I am meant to be doubly me, hovering over both books and myself and college street.