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.