She woke up late again today. She had so many things that she needed to do daily that she sometimes got so tired she spent her waking hours trapped in a haze of sleep-deprived hallucinations'flits of light here and there, things that seemed out of sort.

She needed more sleep.

Fifteen minutes hardly being the reclamation of a life, she rose with great reluctance from the womb of warmth and down feathers. She needed to pee, and as she did she thought about all the things that she needed to accomplish before the next time she could do exactly what she wanted to do at that moment'get back in bed. But, she needed to proceed into the upcoming day of obligation. She groaned at thought of all the things she needed to do.

She needed to get ready, needing the niceties that go along with presenting herself in the best possible manner to the boys in class. She needed her blush, her mascara, her lotions, and her confidence. She wanted breakfast, but had no time; she needed to get to class.

She needed to get gas on her way to school, and used her compliant plastic plane to make the transaction that much quicker. These reclaimed seconds make Life laugh at her and the rest of the world that covets them. But, she needed these seconds to make it to class on time; she failed to accomplish her goal.

Once there, she wanted to go home.

She wanted to go home, but stayed.

She needed gravity. She needed to find the point in everything that the learned upper-middle class, pseudo-intellectuals had to say. She failed to find the point, but she needed to be there. She needed every ounce of her will to prevent screaming in the face of pretentiousness: 'Who fucking cares?!'�

She needed a cigarette. She needed to walk across campus to get back to her car. She needed to beat the rush of students to avoid the gridlock caused by dozens of impatient Americans trying to go through the same one lane gate; the rush beat her by a footstep.

She still needed to eat, but decided against the convenience of fast food as per the wishes of her sludge-filled arteries. She needed to make something when she got home, but decided to wait until she did some of the tasks for the next day.

She needed to read a Victorian novel about social advancement and matrimonial intrigue. She needed to write a four-page paper on a line from a sixteenth century poem about death. She needed to pay the phone bill. She needed clean the litter box and do the dishes. She needed to read the published paper of some self-important fake doctor wannabe who waxed lethargic on the symbolism of flowers in the work Virginia Woolf. She also needed to watch the show she had saved on her Tivo. She needed more time; she did not possess life, though life possessed her. Her stomach growled from hunger, so she made herself a nutritious and delicious meal of pita bread and spicy hummus.

With a full stomach, she returned to her tasks. She needed to write the paper and sat at the computer staring at whiteness on the screen. She again needed to find the point of it, but could not. She knew the practical applications of everything she did, but failed to find the sense of righteousness that most in society seem to possess. She needed to know why this was important. She needed to know if there was any authenticity left in the world'�or if there ever was. She thought and thought about what to write, but could not find the motivation. She needed to do it, but refused. She had much to say, many loud thoughts that would be difficult for the perceptive to ignore, but she had trouble seeing the worthiness of the requests made upon her. Would not her insights on existence be as valuable as her insight on deconstructionalist criticism? She needed validation for what she was doing, validation that would lead to motivation, which would lead to graduation. She needed to find her way out of her own head, if only to plow her way through the gauntlet of social and professional mores.

After an hour, she wanted a cold glass of water and some peanut M&M's.

She achieved her chosen goal and returned once again to the computer. She needed four pages but had written only one line: 'This is not real.'� She sighed and looked at her ceiling. She noticed an abandoned spider web clinging to the corner of the bedroom wall just above her calendar. She ate an M&M and thought about the absent spider and its abandoned home. She needed to get back to work, but she wanted to contemplate the fate of the spider. She needed to explicate Donne, but she was creating her own internal poetry pondering the impermanence of existence. She began thinking of priorities and all of the things that she needed to do. She took a sip of water.

She needed an outlet to vent her frustrations. She needed understanding. She needed intellectually stimulating companionship. She needed to lose some weight. She needed to forget her mistakes and focus on her successes. She needed peace of mind. She needed quiet. She needed sleep. She needed more time. She ate an M&M'green, her favorite color. She needed to think, she needed to think, she needed to think'�all these things that she needed to do, get, see, or be. But, she needed to know if any of it really mattered. She needed validation.

Then revelation hit her like a drunken sucker-punch in a bar: she already had everything she needed.

She began typing, but not a paper on the Holy Sonnets.

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