Blue Day. Formerly B Day. Day 51.

The moonlight is as hard as a chisel carving shadows out of pure darkness. Surely there must be something of substance to cast this deeper black into patterns? Branches tangled outside the window bending the light into grotesqueries of Bosch like galleries. The night is filled with stars, burning effigies of dreams we want to remember, and nightmares we can't forget. In this darkness, with a single light lit, sits an empty soul, trying desperately to refill the places where his happiness once spilled out. Given to dark thoughts and desperation the only liquid to sate this empty vessel is a small trickle. A trickle he squeezes out of the realization that each day his students avoid the makeup test is another tear to feed the spring that feeds the emptiness inside of himself.

And so ends the dream that was AP Government. Once again trust too deep was placed in the hands of an unworthy steward and it has all crashed upon the ground like the last egg of an endangered bird. For a moment our futures spun together as tight as silk and we wove a shawl, as soft as oil on water and just as colorful. But that is all gone now, the fabric ripped and the only thing left of the silk are the worms and they are unfortunate partners in this journey without sound, or light, or hope. Why can't we just have one quiz where we all show up and I don't have to spend my last few hourglass sands writing make up tests?

Oh, period 8. I'm annoyed with you too. Pay attention.