Draped in dust from an old bookshelf,
drenched in sweat and desperation.
Your fingers they fumble through the leather covers; paper cuts and haste.
Thirty hours in and the room is a mess,
and so are your hairs and so are your lungs.
But bound by desperation you dig into still; fatigue and ache.
Maybe they'll wait till you've lost,
till you give up in exhaustion.
Or maybe; maybe you'll forget before you're done.
Maybe; maybe just give up and move on.
