I sit in a dog-beaten chair looking out. The window is a tired mouth glazed with yawns. The patio is paved with flat teeth, bleached in sunshine. I run my tongue over my own teeth, taste the hacksaw mint toothpaste.
I have been up most of the night. In fifteen minutes the examination hall will open. I imagine the congealed air, my wiry thoughts catching on the spines of books and the legs of pretty girls.
The ceiling pauses, I tilt my head back, white paint, sweat stains, an exam paper waiting for a student. The halls of residence grown like mould. Why did I end up here doing a university degree.
On the horizon slabs of horse graze back and forth, liquid Cadillacs on a hill. I imagine ice cream, bitter as a tom cat. Already the day it too hot for thought. I cram my bag with papers and flick a malingering ant from my text books.
I dream a postman with gift wrapped answers.