yahiro opened his eyes, the back of his eyelids burning.

his papers sat at the desk, abandoned, an excessive amount of resolve making way for hopelessness, and as he tried to raise a finger thinking of the benefits it would bring him to begin working, overthinking had pushed it down as quickly as it shifted.

he would like to finish his work.

finishing everything would give him more time for the next batch.

finishing everything with his best efforts would give him a higher grade.

for what?

if he ever made it to a decent rank, he would leave college with a sense of pride, but will this be adequate?

the world is a playground for deities, preying on the millions of people that traverse its roads and mountains, playing dice over drinks as they yawn in their immortal flesh and sculpted roles.

is there any space left for him?