The song had been on repeat nineteen times already. Machette Avenue. The name lended the idea of cutting through the streets, finding something in the meat, worth living for. I had nothing for where I was. All I had between me and the plane was a given amount of time, each moment proportionately larger than the last. It was time to start finding ways to make the next part come and go so the next could come and go and so I could finally go.

I sat in the kitchen, which had awkward green flooring just like my bathroom and my late house back home, and fed off their energy. It was the last day before the weekend which featured the last Friday, Saturday, Sunday before we all headed home, and when I would never see these people again. Or maybe I would, but it wouldn't been in class...not here anyway.

They were writing essays, forcing energy out of themselves, just like crushing lemons into glasses. I was eaten up by it, I could feel them working, their ergency filing the room. It made me feel, more or less, a live. It was proof that I wasn't dead just yet.