By A. R. Craftier | Graphics by Joanne Guo It is 10:01am on Sunday, the 30th of August. It is windy outside, and I am still in bed. Four minutes have passed. I have checked my social media, replied to all that I needed to, and have begun writing the creative nonfiction I promised a friend I would write.
clock tick-tock through the long, agonising seminars.
The days are blending, the minutes stretching and coalescing, my world shrinking into this little room, in this little house, in this quiet, lonely neighbourhood. When we turn on the news at 12, we either cheer at the good I did not do it yesterday, on account of some drama news or groan at bad – perhaps both. And then we ask: occurring, and the other assignment I had due, as well as some revision for another subject. The day before ‘What’s for dinner?’ that, I was finishing my three-day grind to translate and proofread a 60-page long monster of a manga chapter. My mum leaves for the shops by herself, and I head back to my room, either staring at the half-written work on my I do not remember what I was doing the week before, desk or the messages upon my screens or the distant but it likely included rushing lectures and watching the world outside my window. I do not really think about 50
