It is late. I am tired.

Snails and frogs talk about Marmite as I wait for inspiration, eyelids heavy.

They really do. I can’t make anything up right now, so don’t assume I made that up.

These days, Marmite gives me indigestion. Its yeasty bite is cruel.

The apathy is strong at this time. Somehow I am determined not to miss this deadline.

This pointless deadline.

But if I can still meet it, it is a small achievement. A small goal met.

Do lots of small goals make a large goal?

I want to think so.

I don’t think so.