How tiring it is to have to work all the time. Too soon your eyes begin to itch and the eyelids begin to close, and you must blink repeatedly to stay awake. Concentration slips and everything blurs in and out of focus; you forget what you are looking at, it doesn't make any sense. Your brain isn't getting enough oxygen, and your mouth is open in a perpetual yawn, trying to fill its needs. The bed calls to you, enticing you, tempting you. You look at it from the corner of your eye, remembering its soft feel, its warmth and comfort, but then you wrench your gaze back to the paper before you. The pen in your hand feels heavy, it's impossible to keep it upright. Your writing looks like scribble, an illegible scrawl that you shall have to decipher later. And you know you can't go to bed, not yet. There is too much do be done. Should you leave it, the work would still be there tomorrow, and the day after and the day after that too. It will keep mounting higher, the piles drowning you with their weight. So you soldier on, pushing through the boundary of sleep which tries to impede you, and you try to finish.
Dawn breaks and the light filters through the slats of the Venetian blinds, filling the room with a pale glow. The light finds you hunched over your desk, pen still in hand, glasses askew and cheek glued to the paper you were working on. You should have just gone to bed after all.
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