By Aly Kirke, TIWP Student
Days turn to night. And then they do it again. A rose will bloom, and then it will die, and then another rose will grow. The world will spin today and it will still spin the next. The clock will not stop ticking, and demanding, and controlling. Tomorrow is today, and I don’t want it to be. At what point do we say enough? At what point do we say “tomorrow will be different” and really mean it? When our bed is no longer comfortable and safe? When our hands are too broken to write equations? When our eyes can’t bare to see the same thing as yesterday again? At what point do we smash the f*cking clocks?
