The ocean as your syllabus, three days of battle was to be
settled by the pen as it now rolled like thunder across the pages of the final
exam, vague, random, wet and devastating, enumerating your shipwrecked and
sequestrated misfortune with every answer that emanated from a scattered and
troubled brain, dripping with a fear that never dies, even with experience.
Last night's cram was now a forgotten fugacity.
After two hours of trapped creativity, stripped of all
imagination, you finally lean back in your seat, gnashing your teeth. You see
your last answers jump out screaming at you, then exhaling in a sigh. You know
that you've made a mistake in question 42. Will that be the question that you
need to get across the line?
Your instructor marks your exam. At question 42 an eyebrow raises, terrorising your heart which leaps against your chest. Another eyebrow pointing skyward. "Hmm! you got question 45....right, nobody gets that one". Stay of execution eminent. He reaches for his calculator; this can't be good. What 88%? Why not 100%? That's what I got for the last test. Oh! Question 42. Now if I were sitting on the pavement at the side of the road at Candidasa instead of a chair beside the pool...
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